


A Subtle Poison

by Binsfeld



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:52:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 54,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Binsfeld/pseuds/Binsfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While being taken back to Tevinter by Danarius, Fenris comes in contact with Alistair and the Grey Wardens and becomes a reluctant traveling companion. Slowly his respect for Alistair begins to grow into something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dead Slave Walking

Everything hurt.

 

As he stumbled for the umpteenth time, unable in his exhaustion to keep a sufficient slack on the rope acting as a makeshift leash between his neck and the saddle horn of Danarius's horse, Fenris's mind stretched back to a week before. By now he almost welcomed the forced amnesia Danarius would be sure to inflict upon him once they reached Tevinter. Anything to stop his thoughts from landing on that one betrayal.

 

He should have expected it. He'd let down his guard, been _stupid_ enough to trust... and it had come back to bite him in the ass.

 

Hawke's betrayal at the Hanged Man had hurt him more than he liked to admit. He'd been too stunned to even put up a fight. And the look on Anders's face... that quick, smug little _smile_ , as if he approved of Hawke's callous decision. After all his pretty speeches on freedom, he'd just stood back and let Hawke hand Fenris over like an unwanted object. There had never been any love lost between the two of them, but Fenris was fairly sure he'd at least have been man enough to step forward in protest if someone had come to take Anders away for a life of servitude.

 

...No, wait. Scratch that. It would have been a happy day indeed if the Circle had finally come to reclaim the arrogant prick. In fact, fuck him very much. Fuck the pair of them. And Aveline as well, for just _standing_ there, frowning but not lifting a finger to help.

 

Fuck them all.

 

For a moment, cold rage threatened to bubble up, but he stumbled again on the uneven road, barely managing to steady himself in time. The anger was suppressed beneath his almost overwhelming exhaustion. The stones in the road were cutting his feet, but he could no longer feel it. He couldn't feel much below his knees at all. For days he'd been forced to walk behind the horses with very few breaks and even less food and water. His hands were shackled behind his back, making falling down-- which had happened more than once already --a dangerous mistake. Danarius tended to drag him along behind his horse for several minutes before finally pausing long enough to let his errant slave struggle to his feet once more. And every once in a while Danarius would wave a hand, almost casually, and inflict some new and nasty magical blanket over him that ran through the lyrium in his skin like wildfire. Sometimes it was bearable, if only barely. Other times he ended up dazed in the dirt with a dim recollection of screaming himself hoarse.

 

It didn't take much to break a man, he reflected, detached. Already he could feel old habits settling in: a familiar numbness shifting to the forefront of his mind to block out the useless anger and pain, a grudging subservience in the way he responded to the orders of Danarius and the men under his command. There was only survival. Making it one day to the next. Because if he let himself think of what things _could_ be like, if he allowed himself to dwell too long on the freedom he'd managed to taste for just a little while...

 

He didn't think he could handle that. He was strong. But he wasn't quite _that_ strong.

 

Danarius had made it clear he was going to wipe Fenris's mind again. Erase the last few years as if they'd never happened.

 

And Fenris welcomed that.

 

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

By sunset Fenris could barely stand. He'd fallen three times in the last two hours, and when Danarius finally reined in his horse and called for a halt, Fenris simply collapsed where he stood. He landed on his knees hard, jarring his teeth in his skull, and it was all he could do to keep from simply letting himself fall over onto his side. He was faintly surprised that underneath all of the numbness and exhaustion, the regret and the rage, there was still a kernel of stubborn pride.

 

He would have to keep that part of himself hidden-- or crush it completely --before Danarius caught a whiff of it and made the remainder of their trip even more hellish.

 

"Set up camp," Danarius called as he swung down from his horse. He barely spared Fenris a glance as he strode past, tugging off his riding gloves and slapping them against his robes to loosen the dust. Fenris knelt where he was, back hunched, head hanging down in weary defeat, his shoulders screaming from the pain of having his hands bound so long. He was actually starting to nod off when a hard boot nudged him none-too-gently in his hip.

 

"Get up, elf," one of the mercenaries grunted. He'd loosed the rope from Danarius's horse and used the lead to give Fenris a meaningful tug upwards. It was stand or be strangled, so Fenris fought his way out of his cloud of exhaustion and managed to stagger to his feet after the second try. He kept his eyes downcast, too sore and tired to even think about putting up any sort of resistance.

 

He passed a set of feminine feet and kept his eyes nailed firmly to the ground. The one thing he could not handle right now was looking his sister in the face. If anything could drive him to the brink of a murderous rage right now, it was she.

 

And why not? Again his hidden sliver of pride pricked him, stirring the anger sluggishly. It had never occurred to him in his youth that death might be a sweet release from slavery. That was then. This was now. If he attacked the camp now, forced Danarius to kill him... If he managed to at least take Varania out before he died...

 

That would be something, right? That might make things right again. As right as they were ever likely to be for him, anyway.

 

And Danarius would never see it coming. He'd only ever known an obedient Fenris. Aside from his flight after the butcher of the Fog Warriors and his open if brief defiance at the Hanged Man, Fenris had always been the perfect slave. He'd never openly attacked his master. Fenris would have the element of surprise, and it might actually gain him the few precious moments needed to crush his sister's heart in her chest. Going after Danarius himself could be too dangerous. The man would react instinctively and hit him with a spell out of self-defense.

 

It was settled, then. Break free. Kill Varania. Take as many of the bastards with him as he could. It seemed a fitting way to die.

 

Now that he had made the decision, some of the hot anger cooled, slipping through his veins like ice and clearing his head. He allowed the guard to shove him over to the edge of the campsite and tie the rope to a tree, settling down cross-legged in the grass. A few minutes later the guard fetched him a bowl of scraps and some water. He practically crammed the food down Fenris's throat, clearly unwilling to risk freeing his hands, and managed to spill half the water on the elf's chest rather than into his mouth. Fenris sat licking his cracked lips, trying to catch every drop of the precious liquid. His gaze remained dutifully lowered as the guard grumbled at him, collected the dishes, and returned to the fire.

 

Now came the hard part. All his abused body desired was sleep, but he could not give in. Leaning his back against the tree, he let his chin rest on his chest and stared at his bloodied feet.

 

Waiting for night to fall.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

It was another two or three hours before silence fell over the camp as Danarius and his men finally slept. There was a single guard, but he'd been nodding on and off; the wards Danarius had placed around the camp would alert them to any approaching dangers. Fenris roused himself out of his own half doze and scooted closer to the tree, further into its dark shadows.

 

Stretching out on his side and lifting his knees up to his chest, he pulled his hands down over his backside and behind his knees. Struggling to make his long legs cooperate, almost too weakened to think straight, he stepped through the loop of his arms until his bound hands were in front of him. Reaching up, he fought with the tight noose at his throat until the rope finally fell away. His heart began to hammer in his chest, and the onset of adrenaline helped him focus.

 

For a moment he lay still, catching his breath and collecting his thoughts. A feeling of unease crept up his spine. His ear was pressed to the ground, and he could swear he heard something approaching. Horses. Or many running feet. He sat up slowly, straining to see in the darkness, breathing quietly through his mouth as he listened hard. There was no doubt. Many people-- or things --were coming their way fast. A faint shout sounded somewhere in the dark, and the clash of steel made his muscles clench instinctively.

 

He was rolling to his feet, albeit a bit unsteadily, when something flashed at the edges of the camp, bright as lightning and carrying with it a high-pitched keen of alarm.

 

Something had tripped the magical barrier.

 

Wincing and throwing up his hands to protect his eyes from the light, he got a brief glimpse of shadowy figures in the darkness, then the magic was reacting to their presence, and three of them-- men? --burst into flames.

 

No. Not men.

 

Darkspawn.

 

Danarius and his party were already scrambling to their feet, shouting and reaching for their weapons when the rest of the band of darkspawn burst into camp. Danarius lifted his staff and shouted, and ice leapt out to freeze one of the monsters in place. His mercenaries, half blinded from sleep and the sudden flash of light, stumbled around, swinging wildly with their swords.

 

The darkspawn seemed just as startled. They hadn't even known the camp was there. They hadn't been attacking; they'd been _fleeing_.

 

A warrior in full armor crashed into the back of the pack with a roar, beheading the nearest darkspawn with a sweep of his axe. Half a step behind him came another armored figure, striking left and right with a pair of long daggers. For one heart-stopping moment Fenris thought it was Hawke. Had Hawke had a change of heart? Had it all been a ruse to catch Danarius off his guard?

 

_Idiot,_ Fenris snarled to himself, angry at the humiliating flash of hope. Hawke had made it clear Fenris was disposable. These were the people who'd been chasing the darkspawn. Even now half a dozen more were dashing forward, and the distinctive crest and blue-piped doublets gave away their identities. It was a squad of Grey Wardens.

 

A hurlock came right at Fenris, shrieking like a demon and swinging at him with a wicked looking two-handed mace. Adrenaline and instinct took over, and Fenris ducked the wild blow, snapping his elbow up into the unprotected chin. The hurlock's head flew back, and it stumbled. Wrenching the mace away with a burst of desperate strength, Fenris kicked the creature right in its midriff, forcing it to double over, and swung the spiked mace down on its head with all the bottled up hatred the last week had given him. With a shout, he activated the lyrium in his flesh, ignoring the searing pain with the ease of practice. It made him harder to keep track of during the fight, and had the added bonus of boosting his strength and awareness, temporarily washing away his weariness and hunger.

 

"No! Stop him!" Danarius had sensed what had happened, and was looking in his direction. He turned briefly from the hurlock he was fighting to throw a hasty crippling spell Fenris's way, but with the lyrium activated, it did little more than cause him to stagger back a few painful steps.

 

"I've learned a few tricks while you've been away, _Master_ ," he shouted back in defiance, then was forced to sidestep as a pair of darkspawn came at him, intent on killing him and continuing their escape. He took down the first with a savage mace blow to the ribcage, and lashed out with his other hand to crush the heart of the second.

 

The Wardens were living up to their reputation, slaying the darkspawn with quick and brutal efficiency. Combined with the mercenaries, they outnumbered the darkspawn almost three to one. There was a mage with the Wardens as well, and she was causing devastation with ice and fire. As she spun to face an enemy trying to flank her, something about the familiar way she moved and the way her dark hair fell triggered a memory. Who did she remind him of..?

 

He had no time to follow that thought, caught up in the battle. If he could just punch a hole through the darkspawn and slip away into the night... There was no way he'd be able to take his revenge with a whole squad of Grey Wardens present. There was always the possibility of them siding with Danarius and helping to recapture him. He had to escape now while he could.

 

He slew the genlock coming up on his right and saw his opening. It was now or never. Spinning around, he collided with a man in armor.

 

"Oof!" The man hastily sheathed his sword and caught him by the shoulder, shoving Fenris back a pace. "Steady on! We've won. You're pretty handy in a fight..." The man's voice trailed off. Fenris stood frozen for an instant, panting for breath, mind still awhirl with the hum of battle. The man before him cut a dashing figure in his Grey Warden armor, shield slung over one arm as if it weighed nothing. He was handsome enough, with bristling dirt-blond hair and a faint goatee. His brown eyes were lowered, caught on the manacles on Fenris's wrists. "What..?"

 

Fenris wrenched himself out of the man's grasp and staggered back, lifting his mace at the ready. A quick glance around showed that all the darkspawn had been defeated. Some of the mercenaries were even grinning their thanks at the Wardens.

 

"Damnable elf!" came Danarius's furious cry, and something blistering struck Fenris a blow right between his shoulders like a battering ram, sending him flying. He rolled painfully onto his side, fighting for air. He'd lost the mace, and now Danarius was coming at him, staff lifted and glowing with a sick reddish light.

 

 

 


	2. Wounds

"STOP! What are you doing?" The Grey Warden stepped quickly to the side, placing himself firmly between Danarius and his prey.

 

"That is _my_ property, Warden," Danarius spat, jabbing his staff forward threateningly. "Step aside. He was trying to escape and needs to be taught a lesson."

 

"You know, it's been awhile since I've been to the Free Marches, but I'm pretty sure the 'Free' part is pretty clear." The Warden's voice was hard. "Slavery is not tolerated here."

 

"We are no longer in the Free Marches as of this morning," Danarius sneered. "And I am from Tevinter, as is that worthless elf. I appreciate your aid with the darkspawn, but I won't tell you again. STEP ASIDE."

 

Fenris lay where he was on the ground, helpless to do anything but watch, his heart thundering in his ears. His breath left his lungs in a rush of surprised relief as the Warden's reply came down like a hammer.

 

"No."

 

Danarius didn't bother to argue any further. He muttered something harshly and lifted his staff. Waves of pain wracked Fenris's body, the lyrium doing only enough to keep him from blacking out. The Warden staggered backwards under the onslaught, then threw out his arm in a sweeping gesture with a grunt of effort. There was a pulse to the air, and abruptly the magic died.

 

Taking in great gasping breaths, body shaking in the aftermath of the pain, Fenris stared at the man's steel-clad back. He'd seen that trick before back in the Gallows. The man had been a bloody Templar before joining the Wardens?

 

Danarius was not intimidated. He slashed at his palm with the hidden blade on the side of his staff, and a red mist rose at his feet.

 

"Blood magic," shouted the mage Warden, and a moment later Shades erupted from the ground.

 

"There's only six of them," Danarius barked to his startled men. "Take them down!"

 

Both emboldened and shaken by the presence of the Shades, the mercenaries threw themselves at the Wardens.

 

It was their last, fatal mistake.

 

The Wardens didn't so much as flinch at the sight of the demons. They went into battle with the same grim determination as they'd shown in their fight against the darkspawn. Only the Templar Warden remained where he was, sword in hand, shield held up as he met any who got too close to Fenris.

 

"Get _up_ ," Fenris hissed through gritted teeth, and forced himself to rise. He stumbled a few steps and snatched a rusty sword from a fallen darkspawn, placing himself back-to-back with the Warden. His limbs screamed at the exertion, his body still weak, but he pushed past it, swinging and slashing at any who approached.

 

This fight was harder than the last. There were almost a score of mercenaries, and as many Shades as Wardens. Years of wading into similar situations with Hawke had not been for naught, however. Weary and desperate as he was, Fenris managed to hold his own. When he finally was able to catch a breather, he turned, peering around the Warden's blood-spattered pauldron to check on the rest of the fighters.

 

The Shades had all been defeated, and many of the mercenaries had, as well. Three of them were actually turning tail and running into the night. The Warden mage was facing off against Danarius, matching him spell for spell.

 

With a harsh cry she swung her fist, and Danarius jerked into the air as if lifted by some unseen hand. He slammed to the ground hard enough to shatter bones, and his scream was like music to Fenris's ears.

 

"No," he gasped, pushing past the startled Warden. This was one death that he was determined to claim for his own. He rushed to Danarius's side, kicking the fallen staff aside when the mage reached for it weakly. Seizing his hated master by the throat, he lifted him bodily with a grunt, glaring into the man's panicked eyes.

 

He felt the need to tell the man that he was beaten. To throw in his face the fact that his 'slave' was a free man, that he was nobody's toy any longer. He wanted the last words the man heard to be something that would haunt him even in death. But the rage inside of him made it impossible to think straight, to come up with anything fitting, and all he could manage to snarl was, "Fuck you for everything you did to me, you twisted bastard." And he plunged his fist into the man's chest with a flare of lyrium.

 

Danarius's body hit the ground like a sack of bricks. Moments later Fenris followed as he soothed the lyrium and the last reserves of his strength failed him. He took two wavering steps back and fell hard on his ass where he sat staring at Danarius with a fierce if somewhat numb satisfaction.

 

"Oh-" the quiet gasp made him turn, and his vision swam alarmingly. His body had put up with more than enough, and was threatening to shut down at any moment.

 

" _Fenris_..!" The Warden mage came running up and dropped gracefully into a crouch at his side, her face registering shock and alarm. "Fenris. Are you all right? What _happened_?"

 

It took his tired mind longer than it should have to register the familiarity of the face. "Bethany?"

 

She smiled at him, pity swimming in her eyes. "Oh, Fenris," she murmured, reaching out as if to touch his bruised face before lowering the hand helplessly. "Who were these men? What were they doing to you?"

 

He stared back, unable to speak. That face, so similar in so many small ways, to _hers_... He averted his eyes, swallowing back a rush of bile. "Your sister decided I wasn't worth the trouble of keeping around," he said harshly. "When my old master came to collect, she seemed only too willing to hand me over."

 

"What?" Bethany's face was stricken. "No. She wouldn't. She..." Her voice petered out, and she swallowed a few times. She lowered her eyes in shame. She'd seen her elder sister's ruthlessness many times growing up. As much as it pained her to accept it, a part of her could easily imagine her doing something so heartless. Especially if she and Fenris hadn't gotten along. Or there had been money involved. She opened her mouth to ask, then closed it again. She didn't want to know.

 

"You know him, Bethany?" The ex-Templar strode up, wiping blood from his sword and glancing around at the fallen. Four of the mercenaries had surrendered and knelt in the grass with their hands clasped behind their heads while grim Wardens stood guard over them.

 

"His name is Fenris. I met him in Kirkwall. He was one of my sister's... companions." Bethany's voice wobbled dangerously and she stopped talking. She held out her hands, palms towards Fenris, and hesitated when he flinched back. "I'm sorry. I know how you feel about magic. But is it all right if I just heal you a little?"

 

Fenris nodded jerkily, forcing himself to remain still. He'd learned to tolerate that much, at least, after being forced to work with Anders.

 

Bethany closed her eyes, her hands giving off a soft green glow. Fenris barely bit back a sigh of relief as his many aches and pains began to ebb away.

 

Her commander turned away to face the mercenaries, his eyes flat. "You're slavers, and your crimes are punishable by death. Since we're nowhere near a city with proper guardsmen, I get to play judge. May the Maker have mercy on your souls." He nodded to the Warden with the axe.

 

The prisoners gave shrieks of dismay, but there was no mercy to be had. Fenris watched the beheadings with silent approval.

 

A small whimper of fear made his head snap around.

 

"We missed one," the dagger-wielding Warden said, hurrying over to a form trying desperately to hide behind a log. She hauled the woman out into the firelight. "Oh, it's another one." She released the cowering elf. "Sorry. It's all right, don't be afraid. You're safe n--"

 

Fenris shoved Bethany out of the way and scrambled across the few feet separating him from the cowering woman, who gave a scream of despair as he locked his fingers around her slender throat.

 

For someone wearing full plate armor, the Templar Warden moved with surprising swiftness. He was over in a heartbeat, prying Fenris's hands away and dragging him back. "No, don't!" The Warden grabbed his arm, trying to put himself in between the two of them when Fenris tried to bully his way forward once more. "They're dead! It's over! She isn't one of them!"

 

Fenris could barely see straight through his towering rage. He would _not_ be denied this revenge. "She's not a slave, you imbecile, she's my sister!"

 

He knew that was the exact wrong thing to say the instant he said it.

 

"Your si-- You're going to kill your own sister?" The Warden shoved him back hard, then held up a hand in warning to keep him at bay. "Just _stop_. What's wrong with you??"

 

Fenris indicated the bodies of the slain with an angry wave of his arm, swaying on his feet. "She was working with _them_! She's the one who led them to me! All so that she could become a Magister. She betrayed her own flesh and blood. She deserves to die just as much as Danarius!"

 

The other Wardens hung back, watching in wary silence. Bethany came up behind Fenris, trying to murmur something soothing, but he was deaf to her words. He glared hotly at the Warden before him, shaking with rage. "She knows exactly what that bastard did to me. She knows _exactly_ what he had in store for me. And she did it anyway! Just for power and prestige. She's not my sister anymore. She's no one but another twisted mage who needs to be put down."

 

"She's still your sister, Fenris," the Warden said firmly, refusing to budge. "Look, I understand wanting to kill that man, but if you kill your own sister you'll regret it until the day you die."

 

"This is none of your affair!"

 

"I made it my affair when I stepped in and saved your ass," the Warden interrupted. His voice was still unrelenting, but there was sympathy in his eyes nonetheless.

 

"I had no choice," Varania sobbed quietly, huddled behind the Warden. "I had no choice, Leto, I..."

 

" _Stop calling me that_!" Suddenly, all at once, it was just too much. His body decided it had put up with enough abuse, and finally gave out on him. His head spun wildly and his legs buckled. Bethany tried to catch him, to soften his fall, but only succeeded in getting dragged down with him.

 

Blood rushing in his ears, he could only look on in impotent fury as the Warden turned to Varania and said quietly, "Start running. Pray we don't cross paths again."

 

Varania sniffled and got to her feet. She turned as if to flee, then paused. "You said something to Danarius back in Kirkwall," she intoned, looking steadily down at her brother through her tears. "You said you never wanted those markings. But you did. You fought for them. You _won_ them in order to buy freedom for our mother. And for me." With another sniff, she turned and ran off as fast as her legs would carry her, where the night swallowed her up.

 

"No..." Fenris struggled to rise, but his limbs refused to obey him, and darkness waxed and waned at the edges of his vision.

 

"Sleep, Fenris," came Bethany's whisper in his ear, thick with sorrow. "You're all right now. Sleep."

 

And despite his internal fight to rebel against the suggestion, he failed. Unconsciousness swept up and dragged him under at last.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

Fenris awoke to the smell of bacon and the quiet murmur of voices. His body was sore and battered, but not the screaming bundle of pain it had been. He still felt pathetically weak, though, and the scent of food made his stomach give a noisy plea for nourishment. He opened his eyes and blinked slowly, waiting for his blurry vision to correct itself. Without moving, he cast his eyes about warily, taking in his surroundings.

 

It was dawn, or very near it. He was no longer on the road or even in the field Danarius had made camp at. Somewhere very close by he could hear running water, and there were several unfamiliar trees in the area. The morning had a bit of a chill to it, but someone had covered him snugly in a thick wool blanket that scratched at his neck. Slowly lifting his head, he looked towards the sound of people breaking their fast together.

 

The Wardens were clustered around a campfire, with the exception of one-- probably the dogwatch --settling down for a quick nap under one of the trees. Bethany spotted Fenris watching them and came over with a smile.

 

"Glad you decided to join us. How do you feel?"

 

"Like I got tackled by an ogre." He sat up slowly, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles. "But I'll live."

 

"Come on, get some breakfast in you. You've barely dragged yourself out of unconsciousness enough in the past day for us to get more than a bit of water down you. You need some real food."

 

Memories came creeping back to fill in some of the holes in his tired brain. Danarius was dead. Gone for good. And his sister... He swallowed thickly and grudgingly allowed the mage to help him to his feet. He stood still for several moments, reassuring himself that he wouldn't fall on his face again and hiding a wince. His feet had been cleaned, wrapped in bandages, and most likely healed to some extent by Bethany. They were still tender, however. "Just how long was I out?"

 

"You slept all the rest of the night we found you, then a day and a night. I was beginning to worry." She kept pace beside him as he slowly made his way over to the fire, eyeing the Wardens with a faint air of distrust. He felt more skittish than he liked. He had no weapon, he was still somewhat weakened, and he was beginning to think he would never trust anyone again, no matter how heroic they seemed at first meeting.

 

"He walks! He talks! It's a miracle." The Templar Warden stood as he approached, spreading his arms briefly in greeting. He wore a big open smile, his demeanor almost overpoweringly friendly. "Here I thought we'd have to drag you all the way to Antiva on a litter. You're not as light as you look, you know. Especially not after a couple miles."

 

"Tell me about it," the rogue Warden grumbled, massaging her shoulder.

 

"Sorry, we were never properly introduced." Their commander stepped forward, thrusting out his hand. "The name's Alistair."

 

Fenris eyed the hand, then peered into the man's eyes with suspicion. "Antiva?"

 

Alistair lowered the hand a bit awkwardly. "Well, we couldn't exactly wake you up and ask where you'd like to be dropped off, could we? We need to get to Antiva, but we couldn't just leave you there all pitiful and beat to hell."

 

"Pitiful," Fenris repeated.

 

The edge to his voice bypassed Alistair completely. "Yeah, you were pretty sorry looking. It was like looking at a dog who'd been run over by a landship. Twice. But anyway, sit sit sit! You must be starving! I'll introduce you to the rest of our merry little crew."

 

As Fenris slowly took a seat beside Bethany, Alistair indicated each Warden in turn. "This is Feila, Matwog-- don't ask about the name --his brother Thomas, and Keldan. Just Kel is fine, though." He pointed to the man already snoring under the tree. "That lazy bastard is Vorin. He's an ass. Don't let it bother you. He's mean to everyone."

 

Feila, the rogue, handed Fenris a piece of rough bread with two thick slabs of bacon laid over it, along with a hunk of cheese. "Don't mind Alistair," she said with a dry smile. "You get used to having a man-child in charge after awhile. He's not always like this. He has his rare moments of levity."

 

"I resent that." Alistair reached for the cheese wheel, and recoiled when Kel lifted his axe in warning.

 

"We'll have none left if you keep stuffing cheese down your gullet every chance you get," the big man snapped. "Leave some for the rest of us!"

 

Alistair pouted for a moment, then pointed wildly off to the left, gasping in horror. "Look out! Bandits!"

 

Kel's eyes remained fixed on Alistair. "I'm not falling for that twice. Thomas, stash the cheese somewhere."

 

Fenris was barely paying attention to the relaxed banter. He didn't wish to sit with the Wardens, but the morning was chilly and the warmth of the fire was more than welcome. He sat, shoulders hunched, protecting his personal space jealously as he wolfed down his food.

 

Bethany passed him a canteen of water. "You can trust these people, Fenris," she said in an undertone. "They're a little weird, but they have good hearts. Well, okay, Vorin _is_ a jackass. But he's not cruel like..." she hesitated.

 

Fenris refused to finish the sentence for her. He shoved all thoughts of Hawke, Anders, and Danarius firmly to the back of his mind. "I have no intention of going to Antiva," he said, just loudly enough for the others to hear.

 

Alistair's expression shifted into one of concern. "Where will you go? Not Kirkwall, surely? Not after what happened. And obviously not to Tevinter."

 

"That's my business."

 

Alistair made a face. "Ok, broodypants, no need to be rude about it. I'm sorry to be blunt, but you're hardly in any condition to go trekking off into the wilderness by yourself. And we're in the middle of nowhere," he indicated their surroundings with a wave of his arm, "in case you hadn't noticed."

 

"We're miles still from the Antivan border," Thomas said as he stuffed the cheese into a sack. "And Maker knows if there are even any villages around here. The last time we went looking for one that was actually marked on the map, it ended up being a waste of time."

 

"That's one way to put it," Alistair agreed with a wince. His tone grew somber. "The whole place was burned to the ground. Everyone who lived there had either moved on or died. It was like Lothering all over again."

 

Fenris glanced up quickly at the name, then looked sideways at Bethany, who was gazing into the fire with a carefully blank face. She caught Fenris looking at her and nodded slightly. "Alistair was in Lothering right before it fell. We must have just left. My family, I mean. Didn't you recognize his name? I thought everyone knew the story by now." Then she flinched, embarrassed. "Sorry. I keep forgetting..."

 

"Right. No one tells slaves much," Fenris grunted. "So who is he, besides an extremely odd man?"

 

"I can hear you, you know," Alistair complained, but was largely ignored.

 

Bethany smiled. "He traveled with the Hero of Ferelden. He helped stop the Blight."

 

Matwog looked up from his bread. "Not to mention he's a royal bas--"

 

"Ok, that's enough of that," Alistair cut in hastily. "All of that's in the past." He looked towards Fenris. "For now I'm second-in-command of the Ferelden Grey Wardens. It seems I've been left with the unfortunate responsibility of taking temporarily over the order while the Warden Commander--"

 

"The Hero of Ferelden," Bethany murmured as an aside for Fenris's benefit.

 

"--traipses about doing Maker knows what. No one's seen her for some time now. If I wasn't so sure she could look after herself, I'd be worried." He did look worried though, Fenris noted. He'd heard vague mentions of the Hero and her tale back at the Hanged Man, but had paid little attention. The Blight had not mattered to him as a slave on the run, and mattered even less to him now.

 

"Fenris, what _are_ you going to do?" Bethany studied his face with worry. "I don't just mean after breakfast, either. Do you have anywhere to go? Anyone you can seek out? Other less crazy family, maybe?"

 

Fenris stared at the remains of his bread and remained silent. He had no answer for her. Danarius was no longer a hound snapping at his heels. He truly was free, even more so than he'd been back at Kirkwall. But he only felt even more lost, if possible. Now that he'd fought for his freedom and won it, he had no idea what to do with himself. He'd been running so long he'd never thought to consider what he would do if he ever had to stop.

 

"Please come with us to Antiva," Bethany implored, ducking her head as she tried to meet his lowered gaze. "You'd probably end up heading that way anyway, since you can't go back the way you came. And from there you can go wherever you like. You can even take ship and go... well, anywhere."

 

"It's not like you have much choice," Alistair butted in, not unkindly. "And you're still a little too wobbly to be left on your own."

 

Fenris shot him a glare.

 

"Not that I don't think you can take of yourself," the Warden amended hastily, hands upheld in defense. "But you _were_ pretty much an undead elf when we found you, and a little bacon and healing magic isn't going to fix that overnight." He paused. "Although you could always try eating more bacon."

 

"Does he ever shut up?"

 

"Sometimes. When he's sleeping." Bethany smiled. "So? Will you come with us? Just until Antiva?"

 

Alistair was right. What choice did he have? It would be beyond foolish to strike out on his own, weakened, unsupplied, and in unknown territory. "Very well," he said grudgingly, sliding the beaming commander a guarded look. "Besides, I suppose I owe you my life. Thank you for that. You... did not have to stand up for me."

 

Alistair looked honestly aghast. "What kind of person would I be if I'd let that lunatic take you back?"

 

"My experience with honorable people has been sadly lacking." He looked down at his crust and added hesitantly, "I don't suppose there's any more bacon?"

 

Kel laughed and reached for the frying pan. "I'll make some more up for you. You need to put some meat on those skinny elf bones of yours."

 

"You need a weapon!" Alistair exclaimed suddenly. "You don't have one, do you?"

 

"We don't exactly carry spares," Matwog pointed out, eyeing Fenris's slender form judiciously. "Maybe he can have one of your daggers, Feila."

 

"Over my dead body. These are custom. No offense, Fenris."

 

"He's stronger than you'd think," Bethany spoke up. "He used a bastard sword in Kirkwall."

 

"I think Vorin looted a sword or two off those mercs," Thomas mused, rubbing at the dark stubble on his jaw. "He likes to take 'em and sell 'em whenever we pass through towns. He might be willing to let you have one." He didn't look too sure, however.

 

"He doesn't need that many swords," Alistair said. "I doubt they're even worth more than a few silvers. He'll survive if he has to give one up."

 

"And if he refuses?" Kel asked, eyeing the shorter man with amusement.

 

"Then I'll... rub poison oak in his blanket, I suppose."

 

"Or you could, you know, _command_ him to hand it over. You are in charge, Oh Fearless Leader, even if you seem to be in denial of the fact twenty three hours out of the day."

 

"Oh, very well," Alistair huffed unhappily. "You don't have to keep reminding me. Where's that bacon? Is there enough for the rest of us to have seconds as well?"

 

"Thirds, in your case. Sorry, boss. We need to start rationing some of the food if we're going to have an extra mouth to feed."

 

"I'm in charge! I command you to make me bacon!"

 

"Blow it out your ass. Sir."

 


	3. Seven Grey Companions

Vorin was just as temperamental and sour as Fenris had been led to believe.

 

In the end, Alistair did have to end up ordering the balding man to hand over one of his "liberated" swords. Kel standing nearby casually cracking his knuckles helped.

 

There wasn't a bastard sword available, and the longsword Vorin reluctantly relinquished was old and surprisingly light, but in fairly good shape. It was the hip scabbard that came with it that bothered Fenris more. Unused to wearing his weapon in such a way, he was constantly forgetting to push it aside when he sat, or startling when it thumped against his thigh as he walked. Eventually he ended up slinging the belt across his chest like a bandolier so he could pull the sword from over his shoulder as he was accustomed, though there was no way to keep the sword from jutting out to the side a bit from the odd angle.

 

Bethany was obviously eager for news of her sister and events back in Kirkwall, but just as clearly unwilling to make Fenris revisit bad memories. She finally settled for asking a few vague questions about Meredith and the Templars and let Fenris fill in the blanks with what he was comfortable with.

 

It was sort of nice, he mused, to be traveling with someone again who was so openly friendly and understanding. Of all Hawke's companions, he'd preferred Bethany's company over the others', with the possible exception of Sebastian. The man could be preachy, but seemed to share some of the same views as Fenris. It had helped that he was quite easy on the eyes; a nice bonus for an ally.

 

The other Wardens talked mainly amongst themselves, leaving Bethany and Fenris politely to their conversation. They traveled at a slow but steady pace, mindful of Fenris's tender feet and healing condition. Fenris found himself listening in on occasion, frowning to himself. He was not sure what to think of them.

 

Hawke and her companions had gotten along all right to some degree or other, but there were always... barbs. Personalities constantly clashed, duties tended to run up against each other. Hawke was the one thing keeping some of them working together. But this group-- with the possible exception of Vorin, who mostly ignored everyone --seemed tight-knit. There was teasing, but it reminded him of the familiar banter between Varric and Isabela rather than the blistering debates he'd gotten into with Merrill or Anders. These people knew each other well, and had learned through hardship to work as a cohesive team in a way Hawke's never had. Perhaps it was because they all shared the same burden as Wardens, while Hawke had picked up strays from just about every walk of life. This was a group of people who expected to be killed by darkspawn any day, and knew something worse awaited them later down the road.

 

He said none of this, but Bethany caught him studying them with guarded curiosity and walked closer to him so she could speak quietly.

 

"I meant what I said. These are good people. I know you have your reasons for not trusting anyone, but believe me, none of them mean you any harm. If you can't take my word for it when it comes to all of them, at least believe me about Alistair. He can be a bit like a mabari sometimes."

 

The comparison amused him for some reason, and he barely bit back a small smile in time. "Big dumb and slobbery?"

 

She laughed.

 

Thomas, who'd only heard Fenris's reply, called up ahead to the man in front, "I think they're talking about you!"

 

Bethany laughed harder.

 

Fenris let the conversation lapse, staring at the back of the commander's head as they marched. The man's ears had turned pink at the teasing.

 

He trusted Bethany more than most, probably more than he should for a mage. But he was not about to make the mistake of trusting strangers again so easily. What did it matter, anyhow? He would be separating from them once they reached Antiva. Alistair seemed like an honorable man, and he'd clearly been a Templar at some point-- an occupation Fenris approved of.

 

But he was still just a man. And Fenris had learned through hard experience that every man had some darkness in him.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

Fenris had long ago developed the habit of sleeping with a weapon close at hand. When the sound of steel crashing against steel jolted him out of sleep just after sunrise one day, he reached out and snatched up his new sword, halfway to his feet before he was even fully awake.

 

He crouched on his bedroll for several moments, heart thudding in his chest as he looked around with quick readiness. A worry that had been gnawing subtly at the back of his mind roared to life. If Varania had gone for help... managed to get someone to track him down...

 

Feila, who had been restringing her bow a few feet away, jumped at his abrupt awakening. "Maker, you startled me," she complained. "I almost poked my eye out with this thing." She pointed with the longbow at the pair dancing back and forth in the dirt on the other side of camp. "Relax. The boys just like to work out their manly aggression against each other every now and again. They say it's to keep in shape. I say they're just too polite to whip 'em out and see whose is larger with ladies present." She rolled her eyes, waxing her bowstring with quick efficiency.

 

Fenris blinked, slowly releasing his death grip on his sword. Matwog and Kel were hammering at each other with sword and axe. Despite the fact that Kel was almost two times the other man's size, Matwog was holding his own admirably.

 

"He's holding back," Bethany said as she came to sit close by. She tossed Fenris an apple. "Kel, I mean. He won't really let go until Matwog starts in with the insults."

 

As if on cue Matwog started taunting the bigger man mercilessly with a surprisingly versatile vocabulary. He badmouthed everything from Kel's parents to his inability to pleasure a woman until finally a flustered Kel gave an outraged roar and began hacking at Matwog's raised sword like he was trying to chop down a tree.

 

"Yield, yield, yield!" Matwog yelped as he staggered back, barely keeping his feet. He could hardly be heard over the sound of the other Wardens laughing.

 

Kel towered over him, puffing a bit from his exertion, ears still red. "Your mouth is going to get you into hot water one day, my friend," he said ominously.

 

Matwog let his sword slip to the ground and shook his numbed hands ruefully. He offered a cheeky grin. "Don't worry, I'm a very strong swimmer."

 

"Hmph!" Slipping his axe into the loop in his belt, Kel stalked over to the fire. He shoved a laughing Thomas out of his path, sending the other man sprawling.

 

Bethany smiled at the look on Fenris's face. "It's all in good fun," she assured him. "How are your feet today?"

 

"Better."

 

"My turn, is it?" Alistair was rising, reaching for his sword. "Vorin, up for a dance?"

 

Vorin made a face.

 

"All right then. Thomas?"

 

"Hey, do you want breakfast or not?" The man was already returning to the bread he was carefully toasting over the fire. "Spar with the new kid."

 

Alistair turned towards Fenris with a playful grin. He spun his sword in a deceptively casual move that betrayed the strength in his wrist. "What do you say? Are you up for it?"

 

Bethany started to protest, but Fenris set his apple aside and rose with his sword. "Very well."

 

He went to stand a few feet from the other man, hefting the sword in his hand in an attempt to reacquaint himself with its strange lightness. "I'm not accustomed to sparring," he admitted. "I'm afraid I won't be very good at holding back. Perhaps you should use your shield."

 

Alistair grinned back at him, waving his sword almost teasingly. "I think I'll be all right. Ready--?" He blocked hastily as Fenris suddenly darted forward, going right for his abdomen. He barely managed to deflect the blow in time, sucking in his stomach defensively.

 

The others looked on with interest, occasionally calling out words of encouragement or advice that fell on deaf ears. The two swordsmen shifted and lunged across their personal battlefield, swords seeking out any opening with increasing speed and strength behind them as Alistair stopped holding back and Fenris became more comfortable with the short blade.

 

It was a new experience for Fenris, fighting someone he had no wish to harm. If he had ever done so before receiving his tattoos, he could not recall.

  
  
He had fought opponents during his enslavement at the behest of Danarius, who so loved to show him off. But he had been expected to win those fights, and though death was rarely the outcome, he had not had to hold back until it was time to stop himself before the killing blow. He'd felt nothing for most of those he'd been ordered to fight; some he had been glad to fight.

  
  
But he didn't want to hurt Alistair.

  
  
Still, holding back was hardly an option. Not only was he unsure how to do so without making it insulting, but Alistair was skilled enough to force him to give the fight his full concentration, especially in his still weakened state.

  
  
He gave the Warden a run for his money, at least. It was Alistair who finally managed to slam Fenris's blade down out of the way and whisk his own up to within a hairsbreadth of the elf's throat, effectively ending the match. But by then he was as red-faced and out of breath as Fenris himself.

  
  
"Maker's breath," he panted, stepping back and sheathing his blade. "I'd hate to fight you at full strength with one of these bastard swords Bethany says you're so fond of."

  
  
Fenris resisted the urge to inspect his sword for nicks. Its lightness still bothered him; it barely felt like it should have been able to withstand the powerful blows. "If I ever find a decent sword, we may try again," he promised, trying not to look as worn out as he felt.

  
  
"I think I'll use my shield if we do," Alistair laughed, and collapsed dramatically by the fire. "Where's breakfast?"

  
  
"You're not a man, you're a bottomless pit," Thomas complained, but handed over a piece of toast with cold jerky on top.

  
  
"I've got dibs on the first round if we find you a decent sword," Kel spoke up as Fenris reluctantly joined the other Wardens at the fire to claim his own breakfast.

  
  
Fenris eyed the big man and his axe. "Very well."

  
  
"No fair, I already called dibs," Alistair complained around a mouthful of food.

  
  
"Grow up."

  
  
Alistair tried to make a pitiful face, which was ruined by the way his cheeks bulged with all of the toast he'd crammed in his mouth. "You can't talk to your Fearless Leader like that!"

  
  
"Ugh, you're going to make me lose my appetite," Bethany said, grimacing at him. "Didn't they teach you any manners at the Chantry? How did the Hero tolerate you at meal times?"

  
  
"You've obviously never seen dwarven table manners."

  
  
"Ooo I'm telling her you said that."

  
  
"Oh please don't. Seriously."

  
  
"You've met the Hero of Ferelden?" Fenris asked, curious almost despite himself. The few times he'd heard the woman mentioned it had been with such reverence that he couldn't help but wonder what kind of woman she was. Hawke, for all her faults, had been something of a hero in her own right, and earned the respect of many. She was Going Places, it was clear; especially with her new noble title. But she was just a big fish in a small pond. The Hero of Ferelden had stopped a Blight and saved Thedas, bringing together an army practically single-handedly, if the tales were to be believed. Thinking of his own experiences with Hawke, a woman much-talked of in Kirkwall, he found himself wondering if the Hero was deserving of the awe and respect people gave her, or if her legend had just been inflated in the telling.

  
  
"Only once," Bethany admitted, nibbling almost daintily at her toast. "In Amaranthine. It was right before she disappeared. She treated me as if we were equals, even though I'd only recently been through my Joining. I'm afraid I was barely even polite to her. I was a little... upset about where life had taken me. I didn't really want to be a Warden. She did say something that stuck with me, though." She put her toast down, staring into the fire. "When I told her how I'd only gone through the Joining to keep from dying from the Taint, she said... 'We don't choose our destiny; it chooses us. Maybe you were meant for greater things than you give yourself credit for.' It's really helped me come to terms with what I am now and what we do. She's tough, no mistake, but she's compassionate despite all she's said to have been through. I wish I could have gotten to know her better."

 

And then there was nothing for it but for Alistair to tell how he'd met the Hero. The others egged him on until he caved at last, giving a quick abbreviated explanation of how chance had thrown them together at Ostagar, and how they'd had many adventures with a strange collection of allies: assassins, mages, even a qunari and a golem. It was clear that the man had considered the Warden a friend, and held great respect for her, but he also made her seem more like an ordinary woman than the tales made her out to be. She was no general, no champion of justice born with a sword in her hand. She'd dragged herself out of the slums of Orzammar with pure stubbornness and developed a knack for being in the right place at the right time while on her journey as a Warden.

 

Fenris was fascinated despite his previous disinterest in the other country's most recent lauded hero, but at the end of the tale he found himself asking, “Just how close were you and the Hero?”

 

“You mean does Alistair like 'em short and stubby?” Vorin snickered.

 

Alistair's face darkened with a quick flash of real anger, but Kel reached over and hit Vorin upside the head just hard enough to hurt. “Show some respect, you horrible old grouch.”

 

Alistair forced back his anger with a visible effort and even managed a weak smile for Fenris's benefit. “No, we were just friends. I don't think she ever found the time for romance. She could be very single-minded. She was too focused on curing the Blight, and then her duties as the Warden Commander took over her life.”

 

“And now she's gone?”

 

“Yep.” Alistair poked at the fire with a stick, frowning to himself. “No one knows where she went or what she's up to. She was apparently very vague about it, and I wasn't in Amaranthine when she disappeared. Knowing her, it's important, but I think she went alone, and that worries me. At first I thought she'd gone after Anders to see what the hell his problem was-- they were pretty good friends. But then Bethany told me that he's hiding out in Kirkwall, so now I'm not sure what to think.”

 

Fenris gazed at him levelly. “And why are you going to Antiva?”

 

“Just following up some leads,” Alistair said with feigned casualness, seemingly intent on his stick. “Our dear departed Commander had some pretty bizarre adventures in the Deep Roads awhile back, and we're responding to any news that seems related to it. Sorry, Warden business.”

 

“Hm.” Fenris shrugged off his curiosity with a flicker of irritation. What did it matter to him? It was none of his business. He changed the subject tactfully. “I understand why Bethany is here. But why would a Templar become a Warden?”

 

“I was recruited. That's how we get most of our members during a Blight. Usually outside a Blight our ranks are filled mostly by those who volunteer or are recommended, but since so many of us were wiped out in Ostagar, recruitment's become important again.”

 

“But the battle at Ostagar was years ago.”

 

“Yes, well...” Alistair glanced sidelong at Vorin. “The Joining can be... dangerous. We don't get to keep everyone we recruit.”

 

Vorin got up abruptly, sent Alistair a withering look, and retreated to the edge of the camp.

 

Alistair looked pained. “I've stuck my foot in it again, haven't I?”

 

Matwog leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, voice low as he explained. “Vorin was pretty sweet on this girl that got recruited right after him. They were real close, even though they didn't know each other long. She didn't survive the Joining.”

 

“And I'm the one who recruited her,” Alistair added gloomily.

 

“But if you hadn't, they'd never have met,” Bethany protested.

 

“He'd rather have never met her and her be alive,” Kel said solemnly. “Anyway, it's a big part of why he's such a heel, though he always had an unpleasant streak, even then.”

 

“So!” Alistair said brightly, obviously trying to change the subject once more. “Fenris. Where'd you learn to fight like that?”

 

“Yeah, they don't teach slaves to fight like that,” Matwog said.

 

Fenris shrugged, concentrating on his food. “I don't know.”

 

“Oh, come on, you can tell me. Did you have a personal trainer? Were you part of some militia or--”

 

“I don't know. I don't remember.”

 

“Don't remember?” Matwog snorted. “Trade secrets, huh? Don't tell me there's some secret band of elven warriors who--”

 

Alistair, noting the way Fenris's face got more and more clouded, reached out and gave Matwog a warning push. Fenris got to his feet, taking his sword with him. “This blade needs sharpening,” he said flatly, and returned to his bedroll.

 

Thomas gave his brother a pitying look. “What is it about you never knowing when to shut up?”

 

Bethany moved as if to go after him, but Alistair waved her back and rose, following the elf in silence.

 

Fenris didn't look up at the man's approach, attention firmly on the blade and whetstone in his hands.

 

“I apologize,” Alistair said softly, though they were out of hearing range of the others. “We weren't trying to upset you. If there are things you'd rather we not ask you about...”

 

Fenris started to snarl something along the lines of “don't ask me anything”, but bit the words back at the last second. Hadn't he just been nosily asking for information about the Hero and Alistair's time with her? He swallowed hard and forced himself to remember that these people knew nothing of him. Bethany had obviously decided to leave it up to him how much to tell them. “I don't remember anything before becoming a slave,” he said, almost wearily. The scraping of the stone against his blade was soothing. “Until my sister showed up with Danarius, I hadn't even remembered _her_. In a lot of ways I... am still unaccustomed to interacting with other people.”

 

A small corner of his mind hissed in incredulity. Why was he saying such things to the Warden? Didn't he remember what had happened the last time he'd tentatively attempted to make a connection with someone? Hawke had shown him only too late that trust was something only fools took seriously.

 

The thought of her betrayal was like acid in his mind. His mood turned dark again, and he closed his mouth firmly, refusing to say another word, angry at himself for speaking at all.

 

“Fair enough,” Alistair said, still quiet. Fenris wouldn't-- couldn't –look at him. “We'll leave your past alone, and I'll try not to get too personal with my questions. Though, uh, don't be surprised if Matwog insists on apologizing about ten times. He doesn't always think before he talks. Or acts. Or uh. Ever. But he always feels bad afterwards.” He paused. “I'm not going to ask you to trust us, since that obviously hasn't worked out well for you before.”

 

Fenris barely kept from jumping. It was as if the man had read his mind.

 

“I guess all I can do is promise I mean you no harm. Well. With one exception.”

 

Fenris went still, fingers tensing on the hilt of his sword.

 

Alistair gazed down at his bowed head, a touch of steel to his voice. “I don't know you any better than you know us, so as much as I'd like to trust you, let's be honest-- I barley know you. I don't intend you any harm so long as we all remain amicable. But if you threaten any of those under my command, we're going to have a problem. Understood?”

 

Fenris stared down at the sword in his lap, his stomach sick with a confusing clash of different emotions that he couldn't even begin to describe. “I have no quarrel with the Wardens,” he murmured.

 

“Well, good.” Alistair's voice was bright and cheery again, as if there had never been a shadow of a threat to his demeanor. “Anyway, we'll be moving on in a bit, so you might want to wrap that up.”

 

Fenris glanced up to watch the man walk off, gripping the whetstone almost painfully tight.


	4. Skin-Deep

By the following afternoon Fenris's feet felt as good as new, and his body was well on the way to full recovery. He was fleshing out once more with all the good food, rest, and exercise, and the group was no longer forced to take breaks every few miles for his benefit. Lengthening his stride, the elf came abreast with Alistair, who had slowed down a bit to loosen his breastplate's straps.

 

“Where did those darkspawn come from the night you found me?” Fenris asked without preamble. It was something that had been bugging him off and on for days.

 

Alistair flashed him a sideways, teasing grin, fingers still fumbling with the armor. “Don't you mean the night we rescued you?”

 

Fenris gave him a Look. “Your timing was admirable, but I was in the middle of getting myself free.” Free to kill his sister and then die, but still. His pride would not allow the Warden's little correction to slide. “You didn't answer my question. The Blight is over. Where did those darkspawn come from?”

 

“Did you never see a single darkspawn anywhere near Kirkwall?”

 

“Once, maybe twice. I assumed that was normal. A Blight indicates hordes of them. A single party or two straying out of the Deep Roads is not too unusual, according to--” do not think of that damned mage and his snide little smirk _do not_   “--someone I knew in Kirkwall.”

 

Alistair's eyes lingered on him, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. Either a hint of muffled rage had registered on Fenris's face, or he was curious about the slight verbal stumble. Either way, Alistair tactfully let it pass. “It's not unheard of,” he agreed. “And from what I've heard, Kirkwall is a magnet for everything that's wrong with the world.” He sounded only half joking, and Fenris made a mental note to ask about it later. “It has something to do with the trouble Brosca got into with Anders and the others awhile back. There was some... unpleasantness with some speaking darkspawn and the one who considered itself their... well, father, I guess. Or, what did Brosca call it... Architect. I guess that fits. He spoke of changing the way darkspawn think and react, anyway.”

 

Fenris blinked. That had not been what he'd been expecting. “ _Talking_ darkspawn?”

 

“I know, sends a chill right to your wriggly insides, doesn't it?” Alistair shuddered theatrically. “I met one _once_ and was so creeped out I didn't even stick around for a conversation. He got as far as a threat to wrap me up in my own intestines, and then I figured the situation called for lots of violence and much less creepy talking.”

 

Fenris blinked again. It was hard keeping up with the Warden's rambling sometimes. He was never sure if the man was _trying_ to be funny deliberately, or if he just babbled about whatever he was thinking, and was amusing on accident. No wonder his own men regarded him-- _like a mabari,_ his mind murmured helpfully –with fond humor rather than the solemn respect his position deserved.

 

“Brosca killed the bugger-- the Architect, I mean –but ever since, things with the darkspawn have been a little sketchy. There are still some talking ones left, though. I don't know if they're in charge, or what's going on in the Deep Roads, but every now and then a random town gets hit by a squad of darkspawn, or travelers get picked off...” The Warden shook his head grimly. “Reports of random attacks keep cropping up all over the place, and while it's nowhere near Blight threat level, it's still unusual enough to make everyone nervous. Wherever Brosca is, I'm sure she's busy trying to get to the bottom of this mess.”

 

“Brosca.”

 

“The Hero.”

 

“Very... dwarven.”

 

“It's Natia Brosca, actually, but she was always a little funny about people she didn't know calling her by her first name.” Alistair laughed a little. “I just got into the habit of always referring to her by her family name around other people, out of respect. Even after she finally told me-- all grumpy and trying to pretend like it totally didn't mean anything to her –that I could call her Natia.”

 

Fenris fell silent. The respect Alistair had for this absent woman was almost painfully obvious. And they'd clearly been close friends. And these men under his command, despite their teasing, held him in high regard. The camaraderie was almost frightening in a way Fenris didn't understand. It was something he'd experienced briefly in Kirkwall, but there had also been so much opposition amongst them. And while he'd respected Hawke once-- to a point –he had never liked her much. Neither had many of the others. Their goals had been similar, and they had need of each other's strength.

 

These Wardens... they _trusted_ each other. Liked each other, even. For some reason it set Fenris's teeth on edge and made him more jumpy than ever.

 

His mind provided him with accusations he did not wish to hear. _Because you don't belong with these people. You're nothing but an ex-slave who killed the last bunch of people that tried to protect him._

 

The thought of the Fog Warriors made him flinch inwardly, his mind trying desperately to shy away from unwanted memories. Still, his unease had a name. Guilt. Fear.

 

He was risking bringing the wrath of the magisters down upon the heads of these idiot Wardens and their good intentions by simple proximity.

 

All because a certain dippy ex-Templar had a soft heart and had let Varania run free.

 

Belatedly he realized the space between himself and said dippy Warden had widened. Alistair was keeping a cautious distance, eyeing him narrowly. “I can't tell if you're constipated or considering waving your sword around in a fit of broody anger. Either way, I think I'm safer over here. Feel like talking about it?”

 

“No,” he growled.

 

“You have mood swings like a--” Alistair's eye landed on Feila, just within hearing range, and he finished lamely, “er, moodswingy elf person. I'm beginning to think I should wear my shield on whatever arm is closest to you when we're talking.”

 

Fenris flushed. The Warden's humor had the odd effect of irritating him as often as it amused him. Perhaps because he was so unaccustomed to such a personality. “Or just stop talking to me,” he snapped without thinking.

 

“Uh, excuse me, you started this conversation, McMoodswingy. Ser Broodington III. Messere Snarks a Lot.”

 

“Shut up. You're not as clever as you think you are, you insufferable idiot.”

 

“I am too. I am so blindingly clever I often confuse even myself.”

 

“I get the feeling you confuse a lot of people, Warden.”

 

“Thank y-- heyyyy.”

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

“Oh, thank the Maker,” Bethany groaned in relief. Kel had picked her up as effortlessly as one lifts a child to see over a crowd, and she was hanging in his grip, hands shielding her eyes from the sun as she squinted into the distance. “I can see the rooftops from here. We should reach town in a couple of hours.”

 

Fenris looked in the direction she was facing, but the land was too uneven for him to glimpse the town. He popped the last of his lunch into his mouth, chewing slowly as his thoughts turned around and around in an uptight circle. He'd been traveling with the Wardens five days now. If this first town was already within sight, they would soon be in Antiva. From there he would have to decide where he would be going. The thought was daunting. He was no longer running away from something. He was now free to go anywhere. It was not a choice he felt prepared to make.

 

Kel placed Bethany carefully back on her feet as Thomas pored over the battered, food-stained map he'd wrestled out of his brother's hands moments ago. “It has to be Prato. Just a little town not far from the Antivan border.”

 

“We get to sleep in real beds tonight,” Bethany said dreamily.

 

“And have real baths,” Feila added, wrinkling her nose. It had been days since they'd been close to any rivers or ponds, and not all of the men had bothered to keep up with the sponge baths the two women insisted on.

 

“So long as there's a tavern, I'll be happy,” Kel said fervently.

 

“You'll finally be able to get rid of all that junk you've been lugging around,” Matwog said to Vorin. "And maybe Fenris will find himself a decent sword.”

 

“Don't see that he needs one,” Alistair snorted. He was still a little pouty about his last sparring match with Fenris, in which the recovered elf had claimed victory in the simple move of smashing the Warden's sword right out of his hands. “Cheater's got all that lyrium making him Mister Tough Guy.”

 

Fenris frowned at him severely. “I told you to use your shield.”

 

“Children, children, let's get a move on,” Kel interrupted, kicking dirt over their small cooking fire. “Taverns await.”

 

They gathered their things and set off once more, eager for drinks, news, and comfort. Matwog made no secret of the fact that he planned on hitting a brothel the moment he got the chance. Kel and Thomas teased him about it mercilessly, insisting he would have a hard time finding someone willing to sleep with him for less than ten sovereigns.

 

"Be prepared if you go," Feila warned Fenris. "A lot of brothels in Antiva cater heavily to those who wish to bed elves. And you're certainly exotic-looking enough. You'll probably get propositioned the minute you walk in."

 

"I had not been planning on visiting one," Fenris assured her dryly.

 

"Why the hell not?" Feila snorted. " _I_ sure as hell am. We've been on the road for almost two months now, and I know guys can barely stand going a week or two without before they become animals. You may think these morons are gentlemen, but they complain whenever they think Bethany and I are out of earshot." She rolled her eyes with a little grin.

 

Fenris blinked. This was not a subject he was prepared to discuss. He had never quite understood the consuming need for physical pleasure. Perhaps because his only experiences with it had been of a less than pleasant nature. Nor was it something he wished to bring up. Isabela had seemed to catch on pretty quick-- damn the conniving woman --from things he'd said about Danarius, and he was not in the mood to put up with someone getting all sympathetic on him again.

 

Alistair made a hasty attempt to change the subject, visibly as uncomfortable with the topic as Fenris himself, if not more so.

 

"Boy, it sure is a nice day," the Warden said loudly.

 

Feila rolled her eyes. "Fine, Mr. Subtlety, we will talk about something more virgin friendly."

 

Fenris's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

 

"I've never been to Antiva," Bethany put in. "What's it like?"

 

"I've never been, either," Alistair admitted. "I think only Feila has."

 

"Antiva can't be explained," Feila said. "It has to be _experienced_. Just wait until we get to the actual cities."

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

"This is not a discussion." Feila stood, arms akimbo, glaring from one Warden to the next. "I can smell you from over here. Antivans are almost as finicky about cleanliness as the Orlesians, and I will _not_ be caught dead in town with a pack of hooligans who attract flies wherever they go." She pointed imperiously in the direction of the river. "Now get your butts in there and scrub until we remember what color your skin is underneath all that grime."

 

Bethany stood guard at the bridge they would need to cross. "Come on, boys. Prato is just under an hour away. The quicker you scrub, the quicker we get there. Besides, you're not going to get any of the girls to take your coin if you smell like something a dog rolled in."

 

"We do _not_ smell that bad!" Matwog protested, taking a quick whiff of his own armpit. He grimaced. "Okay, so we're a little ripe. But people expect travelers to be a little dirty!"

 

Feila threw a bar of rough soap at him. "Get in or Bethany will knock all of you in."

 

The men looked at each other with various degrees of unhappiness and resignation. Vorin grumbled something rude under his breath, then abruptly shut up when Bethany's staff dipped down to point in his direction.

 

"We're not bathing with the two of you right there," Alistair said with as much dignity as he could muster.

 

"We won't peek," Feila promised. "Once you're in the water, we'll go off and build a little fire for you all to warm up at." She clapped her hands impatiently. "In!" she barked, causing Thomas to jump. "Now!"

 

"Fenris, you don't have to if you don't want to," Bethany called as the elf slowly began to divest himself of his clothing along with the others.

 

"Why does Fenris get the special treatment?" Alistair complained, hopping on one foot as he tugged at a boot.

 

Feila quelled him with a flinty look. "Because he's the only one of you that bothered to take regular sponge baths."

 

Fenris shrugged and continued to disrobe. The cold water would be invigorating to his sore muscles after so many days on the road. But more than that, he felt filthier than he really was. Danarius had made sure he bathed daily when he'd been a slave, and it was a habit he'd tried to stick to. Going so long without a decent bath made him feel itchy and uncomfortable.

 

The girls looked away, fighting back grins as the men stripped and waded reluctantly into the water, complaining the whole time.

 

"Oh, stop your moaning," Feila said heartlessly, chucking a few rags in their direction. "Come on, Bethany. This will take awhile. Men are like dogs when it comes to water. The sky is falling, the sky is falling-- until they're in and having fun splashing about."

 

Bethany laughed and followed her over a rise, politely out of sight of the men.

 

"Andraste's _tits_ , it's freezing!" Matwog yelped, standing waist-deep in the river and hugging himself tightly. His teeth were chattering audibly. "I don't think I have any balls any more. They froze and broke off and are floating downstream. Thomas, if you ever loved me, go fetch them for me."

 

His brother splashed him. "You never had any to begin with, you big baby."

 

Kel caught Matwog in a rough headlock and began rubbing the bar of soap into his shaggy hair. "Hold still and let's get this over with. We've got to make you pretty for the ladies, Matty."

 

"All the soap in Thedas couldn't make him pretty," Thomas laughed.

 

Fenris lathered up a rag with a piece of the soap and was scrubbing at his neck when he felt eyes boring into his back. Glancing over his shoulder, he caught Alistair belatedly jerking his gaze away.

 

"Sorry," the Warden said, flushing as he realized he'd been caught. He gestured. "I just... I didn't realize those were so extensive. The markings."

 

The others had turned to stare in interest. Fenris was only waist-deep in the water, leaving the silvery lines mapping his skin out there for all the world to see. For the first time in a long time Fenris felt severely self-conscious.

 

Alistair had figured out what they were to a point, perhaps because of his previous Templar training. He'd guessed they were lyrium without Bethany or Fenris saying a word. They all seemed to assume it was something Fenris had opted to have done, rather than had done _to_ him.

 

Fenris recalled his sister's parting words with an inner shudder. Maybe they were right. Had he really asked for these markings?

 

"Those are pretty great," Matwog said admiringly.

 

"He looks like a freak," Vorin grunted from where he was shaving in the shallows.

 

Alistair frowned. He waded closer and reached out, hand hovering over the lines on Fenris's back without actually touching them. His eyes flicked back and forth as he followed the angular pattern. "I think they're incredible. They suit you, Fenris."

 

Fenris stared back at him, completely unable to decide how he felt about the simple statement.

 

Suddenly he was acutely aware of the fact that Alistair was standing naked in the water less than two feet away from him. He had the body of a man who'd spent his entire life carrying the burden of sword, shield, and armor. He was not built like an ogre as Kel was, but he was more toned and muscular than any of the other three.

 

Alistair's hand wavered a shadow too close, and his fingertips brushed Fenris's shoulder blade, light as a moth's wing before he snatched his hand back, ears pink. He took a step back, and the brief tension was broken.

 

Fenris realized he was crushing the soap in his fist and loosened his grasp hastily. Glancing at the others, he was relieved to see they hadn't noticed the odd moment. They had already started in on teasing Kel about how small his equipment was with or without cold water to aid it. Fenris scrubbed at himself quickly with the rag, suddenly eager to be out of the water and warming up by the fire. He stared down at the water as he bathed and was careful not to look in Alistair's direction again.

 

Aside from Bethany, when was the last time someone had gotten that close-- and touched him on top of it? He felt as if his skin should be crawling from the unwanted contact. Usually he went out of his way to avoid physical contact with other people. Especially men.

 

But instead the spot where Alistair's fingers had been felt hyper-alert, as if the faint touch was there to stay.

 

Wary and confused, Fenris finished his bath before the others and headed for the shore before realizing his mistake.

 

Finishing first meant getting out of the water naked in front of all of them. This would show the full extent of his tattoos, garnering even more stares. Gritting his teeth, he marched ashore stubbornly.

 

"Maker's breath, they're everywhere," Vorin said, sounding as startled as he did disapproving.

 

"Some of those had to hurt like nobody's business," Thomas added. "How could you stand it?"

 

Fenris snatched up one of the fur blankets the girls had left for them, the muscles in his back stiff. "They all hurt," he said shortly.

 

"Then why did you--"

 

"Leave it," Alistair interrupted quietly.

 

The others fell silent, puzzled by the seriousness of the man's tone. Fenris didn't allow himself to look back as he wrapped the fur around his waist and headed for the fire.

 


	5. Prato

Prato was surrounded by a sturdy log wall taller than two men, and Alistair's party was halted at the open gates by a pair of guards in light armor wielding halberds.

 

"Halt and be recognized," the one on the left commanded, his Antivan accent so thick Fenris had to strain to understand him. "State your business, please."

 

Alistair kept his hands in sight, away from his sword. "We are Gray Wardens, passing through on our way to Antiva."

 

The guards exchanged a swift glance, but lowered their own weapons. "We do not get many Wardens along this road," the one on the right commented. "But you are most welcome."

 

"I don't remember this," Feila said, looking up at the wall with surprise. "When was this put up?"

 

"Ah, you have been to Prato? That must have been years ago. We were hit quite heavily during the Blight, and many were lost. Even now we sometimes must ward off small bands of the darkspawn."

 

"What!" Alistair took a surprised step forward. "You still get attacked regularly?"

 

The guard leaned on his halberd, reaching up to tilt his helmet back slightly and cool his brow. "After the Blight, things went back to normal for a year or so. Then they started creeping about again-- patrolling, hunting. Who knows what goes on in the minds of darkspawn? Nowhere near in the numbers they were during the Blight, but a band of ten or twelve is still a danger to travelers, and could cause quite a bit of destruction if they managed to get inside the town. We have sent a few messages to your order, and have even requested Templar aid, but the Templars were only able to spare men for a few months, and we never heard back from the Wardens. We can only assume the messenger did not make it."

 

Bethany shot Alistair a worried frown. "Could this have anything to do with what you said Brosca was doing with Anders and the others a little while back?"

 

Alistair nodded slowly, looking troubled. "Wouldn't surprise me. And even though she took out the leaders, there have been reports of darkspawn popping up all over the place. But usually if they're seen so often in one place, it's because..." He broke off, then addressed the bemused guard. "I need to speak with someone about this."

 

"Of course." The guard straightened, gesturing towards the open gate. "Our Captain will be quite eager to speak with a Warden, and he will be able to tell you more. We will be most grateful for whatever assistance you can give us. In any case, enjoy Prato, and please respect the law."

 

"Does this mean no brothel?" Matwog whined as they passed into town.

 

"If you've got things to do, you might as well do it now," Alistair relented after a quick skywards glance to determine the time. "Feila, know any decent inns?"

 

"I stayed at the Mossy Rock last time I was here. It wasn't bad."

 

"All right, we'll meet there at twilight. Just ask for directions. And don't go getting fall-down drunk, either. Not with darkspawn in the area."

 

Fenris had been silent during the exchange with the guards, still tense around strangers. Now his eyes were skipping to and fro, taking in the sights of the town. He had spent most of his life in cities, and the town was quite small compared to Kirkwall. The air was thick with the scent of savory food and the sound of a foreign language. It was intimidating and intriguing at the same time. The streets were only partially paved, and the faint stench of refuse and garbage wafted from a few nearby alleys, but he'd smelled much worse in Darktown. He returned his attention to Alistair as the others gave their half hearted pledges of sobriety.

 

"If you're going to see the Guard Captain, I think I'll join you."

 

"Me, too," Bethany chimed in.

 

"Oh, come on, you guys are no fun," Matwog teased. "One trip to a brothel won't kill you."

 

"Leave them alone, you pervert," Feila reprimanded fondly, giving him a push down the street. "Come on, last time I was here I heard about this place called the Cat's Fancy that's supposed to be just _full_ of the prettiest men and women..."

 

Bethany watched them hurry off with a little smile. "Who names a brothel Cat's Fancy?"

 

Alistair shook his head. "Come on, let's see if someone can point us in the direction of the Guard quarters. I really don't like the sound of all these attacks."

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

Fenris found himself eyeing Alistair out of the corner of his eye as they made their way through the narrow streets of Prato. The man was a little hard to decipher, and Fenris had learned the hard way not to trust first impressions.

 

Alistair got flustered whenever the subject of sex was broached, but Fenris had a niggling suspicion the man was not a virgin. He certainly seemed comfortable around his companions, male and female, and after so much traveling together, he was sure to have gotten a glimpse of skin at some point. Nor did he seem bothered by the ordinary commentary about male genitalia that was the norm for men traveling together. Fenris had found himself wondering on more than one occasion if there'd been a creepy uncle or over-friendly play pal in the man's past. As a result, he found himself slightly less tense around Alistair than he did the others, if only because of the possibility of a shared pain.

 

Then there was his attitude. Disciplined soldier one minute, goofball reluctant leader the next. He had to be in his thirties, but he acted more like a boy at times. Was it an act? Who the hell could smile that much? It was annoying.

 

When Bethany suggested asking a merchant for directions, Alistair instead offered a coin to the first child in rags he saw in return for a guide. The boy, clutching the coin as if it might leap out of his hand, debated the pros and cons of simply running off, squinting at Alistair and his shining armor for a long moment. In the end he led the way at a swift jog, helpfully pointing out certain shops in town and even insisting he'd seen a darkspawn when Alistair asked. Whether his cooperative nature came from a hope of gaining more gold or something he saw in Alistair's face was uncertain, but the child led them straight to the Guard barracks. This time it was Bethany who slipped a coin into his palm, but not before extracting a promise from him that he spend it on some warm clothes and hot food.

 

Fenris watched the child dash off, unable to look at either of his companions for a moment.

 

Had he fallen at last into company with decent humans? He'd begun to doubt they existed. But Bethany had always been good to him. Aside from that one understandable blind spot concerning her sister, she seemed like a good judge of character. And she liked Alistair well enough-- respected him, even.

 

_Aveline seemed like a good woman, too,_ a little mental voice reminded him in a venomous aside. _Did_ _ **she**_ _step forward when Hawke threw you away?_

 

"Fenris?" A guard was letting them into the barracks, and Bethany had noticed the elf's hesitation. "Are you coming in?"

 

He murmured some sort of assent and followed. The guard at the door eyed him strangely, almost suspiciously, and Fenris tensed. But the man said nothing; perhaps just wondering why such an odd-looking elf was traveling with the Wardens. It was likely he would be taken as a servant or a whore by some, Feila had warned him. He still couldn't decide if he was relieved or insulted by this unintentional disguise.

 

There weren't very many men in the barracks; many were out on patrol. The Captain called them into his office immediately, and they crowded into the cramped space, so different from Aveline's. The Prato Guard Captain was a big man, almost as big as Kel. His desk looked too small for him as he stood up from his chair and clasped Alistair's arm with one meaty hand in a quick, friendly gesture that seemed to startle Bethany momentarily. Alistair blinked once, but hid his surprise better. Antivans were apparently much more touchy feely with strangers than Fereldens were accustomed to.

 

"Welcome to Prato," the man said with a rich accent. "I am Captain Salva. We have been eagerly awaiting you. I was beginning to fear our message had not reached you. How many have you brought?"

 

Alistair made swift introductions. "I'm sorry, Captain, but we weren't sent," he said. "To my knowledge, your messenger never made it; we only heard about your problems when we arrived just now. We're on our way to the capital. So many darkspawn attacks in one area is troubling, however. I'd like any details you can give me."

 

The Captain's face fell at Alistair's explanation, and he sank into his chair with a weary sigh. "I had hoped you had come to rid us of this menace. Is this all there is? You two and your ser--" he hesitated, eyeing Fenris's tattoos and weapon with confusion. "Er, companion? Elves can become Gray Wardens?"

 

"Anyone may become a Warden," Alistair said without correcting his assumption. "There are five more of us in town."

 

"Ah. Still, a few Gray Wardens are certainly better than none. I would be grateful if you could lend us your aid." He pulled a wine bottle out from under his desk and began carefully filling three glasses. He glanced at Bethany politely, and she declined. Fenris, who'd missed wine more than he'd thought he would during the trip, barely managed to keep from knocking his back like a glass of water. Alistair coughed at the first taste. Salva smiled knowingly, taking a long draught from his own glass. "Antivan spirits are quite something, yes?" His face grew somber once more. "These darkspawn, they do not attack the town itself very often. But they prey on travelers on the main road, and anyone who is foolish enough to venture too far from town on the wrong day. A young boy was killed while hunting in the woods just three nights ago. The people here are frightened, and they are angry that we seem to be doing nothing. In reality, there is little it seems we can do ourselves. We go out and kill them when we can find them, but always more appear, days, sometimes weeks later."

 

"Is there any place in particular that they seem to crop up from most often?"

 

"You are thinking there is a way to the Deep Roads around here, yes?" Salva set his wine aside and interlaced his thick fingers, frowning at a rough map nailed to his wall. There were several red marks scattered in a wide arc around Prato. "We have no quarries nearby. There was an old coal mine, but we sealed it up years ago when I had a similar suspicion. Since then, their movements have been... erratic." He got to his feet with a grunt and went over to the map, tapping an area with his thumb. "I have thought that perhaps the woods are a good place to look. To go in there now is a death sentence-- so much so that I do not dare go in and try to clean house. Assuming I am right, if I take too many guards, I will leave the town practically unprotected. Too little, and we will be wiped out."

 

Alistair scratched at his stubble, studying the map. He looked troubled. "I'll take my people and have a look," he finally said. "Weisshaupt has been asking for new information on the darkspawns' strange behavior."

 

Salva's shoulders slumped slightly in obvious relief. "Thank you, Gray Warden." He clasped Alistair's arm again. "It is a great weight off my mind--" He had been flicking Bethany and Fenris looks of gratitude as well, and once more his gaze lingered on Fenris, brows bunching. Fenris fought to remain still as he met the bigger man's eyes straight-on. "I am sorry," Salva murmured as Alistair pulled his arm free with a worried frown. The Captain waved his hand in the air. "I feel as if I have seen your friend before, but I would remember markings such as those. Too much wine, I think." He laughed, but it sounded a little forced.

 

Bethany nudged Fenris subtly, her eyes darting towards the opposite wall, covered with wanted posters. The grim faces artistically rendered glared out at the room, unfamiliar, but there were quite a lot of them, and some were covered by newer offers. There was no guarantee there wasn't an old reward with Fenris's face on it buried forgotten in there somewhere.

 

"Thank you for the wine," Alistair said with a broad smile, handing the Captain back his half-finished drink. "I'm afraid it's a little strong for me. I'll have to build up a tolerance. It seems worth the effort."

 

Salva laughed again, more honestly this time. "Yes, you do that! I will give you the best wine my salary can afford for your help in this matter."

 

They took their leave as politely but quickly as possible.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

"I'll go get our rooms," Bethany offered as they paused to let a man with a cart of produce pass them in the street. "You two should probably let the others in on what's going on before they make any, er, plans."

 

Alistair grimaced ever so slightly, clearly uncomfortable at the thought of entering a brothel. "Right. But first things first." He pointed to an unmistakable iron sign swinging in the breeze. "Come on, Fenris, let's get you a proper sword."

 

Bethany waved and hurried off in the opposite direction, while Fenris eagerly fell in step beside Alistair. It occurred to him that he had never owned a sword of his own before. He'd _stolen_ plenty of swords, and in Kirkwall Hawke had given him a decent greatsword looted from an enemy. It hadn't been so much an act of kindness as necessity; she was not a swordsman, and he wasn't doing enough damage with his old chipped blade.

 

Fenris's hand strayed towards the pouch tied at his belt for the umpteenth time since entering the town. It contained eleven whole sovereigns and a handful of silver. He'd never held so much money on his person at once before, even when doing shopping errands for his erstwhile Master. Looted from Danarius's corpse, the pouch had been silently presented to him by Bethany a day or so after Fenris had regained consciousness. It was his, as far as he was concerned, and clearly the Wardens agreed. He'd certainly paid for it in flesh and blood and pain throughout his youth.

 

For the first time in his life he was going to buy a sword of his own with his own money. The thought made him unconsciously stand a bit straighter.

 

The blacksmith's son, in charge of the business-handling, took one look at Alistair's imposing Warden armor and was only too happy to show them his father's wares, speaking loudly above the clangs coming from the forge.

 

Fenris sold his borrowed battered sword for a few silvers and eyed each greatsword with a clinical eye while Alistair lingered by the shields.

 

Fenris selected a blade and hefted it experimentally before choosing another. He stepped back to give himself some room and gave the sword a few chops and swings, then tested its flexibility with a one-handed spin that made the blade sing past his ear before letting its point slam into the ground beside his foot. He gave a slight nod of approval, testing the edge of the blade carefully with his thumb. Not so heavy that it was unwieldy, long enough to stop enemies from getting into his guard, and razor-sharp. It was no thing of great beauty, but one of efficient brutality. The blacksmith would never make weapons sought after by nobility, but there was no denying his skill. The one aesthetically pleasing thing was the polished onyx stone set in the side of the hilt; he would feel it pressing against his palm every time he used the sword.

 

"This one," he said. Then, belatedly, "How much?"

 

"You have a good eye," grunted the blacksmith, who'd stepped into the shop unnoticed. He was watching Fenris with a hint of respect to his eyes. Even Alistair and the blacksmith's son looked openly impressed by the elf's seemingly effortless handling of such a massive sword. "That's based off of a dwarven sword I owned in my youth."

 

His son quickly regained his business sense. "Marvelous work, isn't it? My father really knows his stuff. It's yours for just twenty sovereigns."

 

Fenris barely managed to control his expression. With great regret he placed the sword carefully back on the table. "I don't have that much."

 

"I can spot you," Alistair offered immediately, reaching for his money pouch.

 

"No." Fenris's flat refusal stayed the Warden's hand. "If I am going to own a sword, I will pay for it myself."

 

"Boy, fetch me my pipe," the blacksmith commanded. "I left it in the forge." His son hurried off with a sigh, and the blacksmith eyed Fenris with an unreadable expression for a long time. His gaze lingered on the tattoos. "You a Warden, then?"

 

"No. I travel with the Wardens. For now."

 

The man's gaze shifted between him and Alistair. "You're here to take care of these Blighted darkspawn?"

 

"It was not our original goal; we'd heard no word of Prato's problems," Alistair admitted. "But yes, we'll be seeking them out tonight."

 

The man grunted and dug with his fingernail at a piece of food lodged between his teeth. "Heard tales once when I was traveling a few years back, tales about an escaped slave with beautiful tattoos. Word was he was wanted for a great deal of money. Apparently the little bastard was cutting a bloody swath through everyone they sent to drag him back."

 

Fenris stiffened, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Alistair shift his weight ever so slightly, ready to dart forward if he had to.  
  


The blacksmith spat the bit of food contemptuously to the floor. "Only good slave trader's a dead 'un." He reached over and picked up the sword in one large hand. "These darkspawn have caused enough terror and death. If you're willin' to place your lives on the line-- especially with you not even bein' a Warden --then I want you to have a fair chance against those bastards. Ten sovereigns and it's yours."

 

"Done," Fenris said quietly.

 

Money changed hands, and they left quickly before the blacksmith's son could return and learn of the dramatic price change.

 

"Now _that's_ a sword," Alistair said admiringly as they strode down the street. "May I?"

 

Fenris lifted the sword from his back silently and handed it over. Alistair grunted, startled by the weight. "Maker's breath, you're a lot stronger than you look." He gave it a couple of practice swings. "I wouldn't risk slashing this with one hand if I could help it," he chuckled. "I'd probably fling it on accident. Or wrench my wrist." He returned it carefully. "We're going to have to be cautious," he added more seriously. "It hadn't occurred to me that the bounty on your head will take awhile to go away; and we're close enough to Tevinter for others such as the Guard and that man to have heard tales of you."

 

Fenris continued to look straight ahead. "I know."

 

"I don't want you going anywhere alone while we're in Prato."

 

Fenris shot him a dark look.

 

"It's not that I don't think you can handle yourself," Alistair said hastily. "Trust me, I've seen you in action. But you're less likely to be harassed if you're surrounded by Wardens, and I don't think we'll leave a very good impression if you end up killing a score of Guardsmen in self defense, do you?"

 

Fenris grunted in reluctant agreement.

 

"Now, let's see if we can find this, er, establishment."

 

It was Fenris who ended up stopping a passing Guardsman to ask for directions, since Alistair seemed too embarrassed to do so. As it turned out, once they were on the correct street, they were able to detect the heavy scent of incense and the cajoling calls of the employees from several buildings down.

 

"This must be it," Alistair said lamely as they stood just outside, looking up at the borderline raunchy sign. "Cat's Fancy. That really is an odd name." He looked at Fenris sideways. They'd both seen the pair of elves, a man and a woman, lounging in the doorway, beautiful and seductive, dressed in flimsy silks and peppered with glittering ornaments. "You, uh, don't have to come in, you know. You could wait at the inn with Bethany."

 

Fenris remembered Feila's warning. "I doubt I'll be propositioned," he said dryly. "Let's just get this over with."

 

Alistair arched an incredulous eyebrow at him, but didn't bother to argue the man's statement, obviously relieved to have backup. "Very well." He cleared his throat. "Let's go find the others."

 

He dawdled for several moments until Fenris, carefully suppressing an amused smile, finally strode purposefully through the door. After another moment's hesitation, Alistair hurried to follow.

 


	6. Into the Woods

They were in the Cat's Fancy for approximately thirty seconds before Fenris got his first offer.

 

A woman-- a Guard by the look of her uniform --lounging by the bar took one look at him and sidled up with a saucy little smile, either not noticing or choosing to ignore Alistair altogether. "Hey there," she purred.

 

"I don't work here," Fenris said bluntly.

 

"What a shame," she sighed. "Still, if you want to save yourself some coin, and none of the ladies here catch your eye..." She winked suggestively and sauntered off.

 

Alistair barely noticed the exchange. He was taking in the room with wide eyes, his face slowly flushing red. "Maker, look at them all," he squeaked, then cupped a hand to his mouth, humiliated at having said anything at all. Fenris glanced around, unintimidated. It was not his first time in a brothel.

 

The Cat's Fancy was significantly bigger than the Blooming Rose from Kirkwall, and the men and women were of a slightly better caliber. Their clothes alone were definitely more fancy-- and left less to the imagination. As Feila had guessed, the majority of the workers seemed to be elves.

 

Everywhere there were plush fur-covered couches and pillows where customers could lounge with a drink and chat with potential lovers. There was even a low stage against one wall, where twin elven girls danced seductively to the wail of a wooden flute for an appreciative group of men and women. Some customers were being led to doors along either wall. Those who looked like they could afford the more high-class selections were heading up a set of curving stairs, accompanied sometimes by multiple harlots.

 

"I think I hear Kel," Alistair noted as a booming laugh came from one of the back tables where customers could eat or drink while they made their selections. He led the way through the crowded room, pausing once or twice to stammer apologies to whores who stepped in his path, hoping to catch his eye.

 

"Well, now." Fenris twisted quickly as a hand took him by the elbow-- not hard enough to be alarming, but enough to slow him down. A tall man, hair shot with gray, smiled down at Fenris with frank interest. "You must be new here. I think I'd remember something so exotic." He released Fenris's arm and reached up as if to run a finger down one of the markings on the elf's throat.

 

Fenris batted the hand aside. "I don't work here."

 

"It's all right, I get it. You're one of the premium stock, aren't you? Don't worry, I can afford it. I'm not like these Guardsmen and farmers you get in here so often. I'm the local magistrate."

 

"Do I _look_ like a whore?" Fenris asked, still calm, but with a faint edge to his voice.

 

The man started to smile, then stopped and took a closer look at the elf's gauntlets and the imposing sword on his back. "Whatever your trade, you're in the wrong line of business," he said. "Do you have any idea how much coin you could make in a week by working here?" He smiled again, an oily smile that made Fenris's lip curl. "I'd pay fifty sovereigns a week just to have you as my exclus--"

 

Fenris struck out again at a wandering hand, harder this time. "Are you deaf? Touch me again and you'll lose that hand."

 

The man's eyes narrowed in anger. This was clearly not a man used to being denied. The noise in the room dropped slightly as those close enough to observe the exchange noticed the sudden tension.

 

Suddenly Alistair was at Fenris's side, hard eyes on the magistrate. "He told you to back off."

 

"Now, boys," a woman interrupted, slipping in between Fenris and the angry customer. "I'll not have any bouts of testosterone-fueled rage in my establishment." She smiled winningly at the magistrate. "My lord, this gentleman does not work for me, I assure you. But Penny is free today. She is most eager to keep you company." She moved her hand subtly in a command, and a young elf girl got up from a nearby chair and came over to slide a hand teasingly up the magistrate's arm. The man hesitated, then seemed to notice the amount of attention he was getting. Sending Fenris one last unfriendly look, he wrapped his arm possessively around the woman's shoulders and led her towards the stairs.

 

"I apologize," the owner murmured, bowing briefly to Fenris. "My name is Sadie. The Cat's Fancy is at your disposal." She eyed him with a bit of interest beneath her professional demeanor. "I don't suppose you're looking for work?"

 

Alistair stepped forward, fighting a smile, and steered Fenris away with a light touch on his arm. "No, he's not. Excuse us."

 

As soon as they were out of earshot, Fenris let loose a venomous Arcanum curse. "I should have pulled out that idiot's heart and showed it to him," he fumed.

 

Alistair chuckled. "Hey, Feila warned you. I mean, have you looked in a mirror _ever_?"

 

He stumbled to a halt as Fenris turned a cold stare his way. "Are you saying I look like a whore?"

 

"Wha-- No no no!" Alistair waved his hands in frantic denial, cheeks flushing once more. "I just meant-- Well, you're probably the prettiest elf I've-- I mean handsome, not pretty-- I mean, not that I'm trying to be, er, disrespectful.. or..." He hunched his shoulders in humiliation. "Can we just forget I said anything, please?"

 

Fenris looked at him for a long moment, flabbergasted by the man once more. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, scowling for good measure before stalking off towards the back tables. He could feel the tips of his ears burning.

 

Kel and the others were sharing a table right up against the back wall, closest to the roaring fireplace. The table was covered in half-eaten food, goblets, and two bottles of strong wine. On seeing the approach of his Captain, Thomas lifted his goblet with a welcoming shout and burst into song. Kel and Matwog hastened to join in, the words lewd and a bit slurred. The women on their laps giggled and clung to their customers, amused or very good at pretending to be so.

 

Feila stopped Kel's deafening and decidedly off-key singing by smacking him upside the back of the head with a pillow from where she was lounging indolently in the corner of the couch she was sharing with a handsome young man dressed in leathers. A young woman was on her other side, dividing her attention between Feila and Matwog, clearly seeing either as a potential client. Though red-faced from the wine, Feila sounded less inebriated than her fellows as she greeted Alistair and Fenris cheerily.

 

"I knew you'd change your minds! Fenris, quick, tell me how many offers you've had."

 

Fenris managed-- barely --to keep from rolling his eyes. "That's not why we're here." He turned slightly towards Alistair, lowering his voice. "They're in no state to fight each other, much less darkspawn."

 

Alistair was frowning at his men in disapproval, hands on his hips. "I've seen them much drunker than this, but you're probably right." He paused, glancing around. "Where's Vorin?"

 

They all laughed. "He picked out the cheapest lady he could find and disappeared into a bedroom within ten minutes of getting here," Matwog snickered into his goblet. "The man has no idea how to enjoy himself. Does he, lovely?" He favored the woman on his left with a wet kiss on the cheek.

 

Fenris eyed the whores clinically. At least Sadie seemed to take care of her people. They all looked well-fed and healthy, and while some of their moods were feigned, none of them seemed frightened or angry at their lot in life. Standing unobtrusively in corners around the room were hulking bodyguards, which kept the customers from trying anything stupid. Fenris had seen more than one shithole brothel in his youth when he'd accompanied Danarius for weekly trips. He'd seen whores that were painfully thin with haunted eyes and bruises clumsily covered with makeup. Perhaps having a woman in charge was the difference here? All of the ones in Tevinter he'd seen had been run by hard-eyed men.

 

"The Guardsmen need our help," Alistair was saying, hastily waving off one of the women when she offered him some wine-- and more, if her expression was any indication. "There have been darkspawn giving these good people trouble. No more wine, do you hear me? I need you sober by this evening."

 

They groaned, but obediently put their goblets aside.

 

"Darkspawn?" Feila repeated, rubbing at her face as she fought to think straight. "Like... a lot?"

 

"Enough to make the roads dangerous. They've attacked the town a few times, I understand."

 

"That's right," the whore with his arm around Feila put in. Despite the goblet in his hand, he was quite obviously sober. "One of our own was killed by 'em. She was coming back from visiting family in Antiva, and was stupid enough to travel the roads at night. It took days to find her body." He shuddered.

 

Kel sighed heavily. "I should've known something would ruin our fun. Fine, no more drinking. But if you think you're going to drag me out of here until I've got my money's worth..." For the first time he noticed the unfamiliar hilt poking over Fenris's shoulder. "Oh-ho, looks like someone got a new bone-cleaver. Bring it out, let us see."

 

"That would be unwise," Fenris pointed out dryly.

 

"There's something else." Alistair glanced around at them, then decided on the least drunk of them. At his wave, Feila extricated herself from her companion and came over where she could hear Alistair's soft warning. "The Guardsmen may have an old bounty on Fenris," he murmured. "I doubt they'd do anything foolish with him so obviously traveling with a group of Wardens, but be on your guard just in case. Make sure all of you are at the inn before nightfall."

 

"Aye aye, bossman," Feila drawled , banging her fist against her chest in a brief but sloppy salute. She tipped a wink at him. "Take handsome here back to the inn and keep him _occupied_ so he's out of sight of the Guards, yeah?"

 

Alistair's face slowly filled with blood. "What."

 

She laughed raucously, digging him in the ribs with her elbow and bruising herself against the plate mail. "I'm just messing with you, I'm just messing with you. No, seriously, if you don't want him, can I have him?" She stared earnestly at his stunned face before bursting into laughter once more.

 

Fenris-- for better or for worse --missed the conversation completely. Matwog had staggered over at some point and seized the elf in a friendly headlock. "Fenrisss! Stay! Drink-- no. Wait. Drinking is bad. Eat with us! Pick a lady! It's on me!"

 

Fenris attempted to loosen the man's grasp as politely as possible. "No thank you."

 

"Oh, fine, have it your way. I'll order you a nice strapping young lad. I think the guy with Feila has a cousin who works here..."

 

"I'd rather you didn't."

 

"Come onnn, you've got to be aching for it! Please don't tell me you're still desperately clinging to your virginity like Beth and our Fearless Leader? At least stay and have some laughs with us!"

 

"We have to go," Fenris said firmly, pulling himself free. "Before this place makes Alistair pass out from embarrassment."

 

"Or before you get propositioned again," Alistair retorted.

 

Matwog laughed, waving them off. "All right, all right, be that way, you downers. We'll see you this evening." He pumped his fists in the air, crowing to their retreating backs, "Darkspawn are going DOWWWNNN!" Everyone in hearing distance cheered in reply.

 

"Maker, I hope they're sober by then," Alistair groaned.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

The next day started on a bad note and only got worse from there.

 

"You're not a virgin."

 

Alistair stumbled over his own feet and threw a hasty look over his shoulder. None of the others seemed to be in immediate hearing distance, however. They were lagging, grumpy and missing warm beds and bodies. Bethany was scolding Matwog for drinking more than he should have. "I beg your pardon?" Alistair stammered, flushing. "Where did _that_ come from?"

 

Fenris shrugged. His previous assumption of a past abuse had been blown out of the water by their trip to the Cat's Fancy. As embarrassed as open sexuality seemed to make him, Alistair had not reacted with any undue alarm to male prostitutes trying to wheedle a night from him. Was the man's shyness because of his previous Templar training? Had he walked away from that doomed to be a prude forever?

 

And why the hell was he asking about it, anyway? It was none of his damned business. He glanced away, feeling his ears beginning to burn once more. He reached up to rub at one self-consciously. "I apologize. I spoke without thinking. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

 

"Uh... It's okay." Alistair pushed aside a low branch, eyes constantly flicking towards the ground in search of obstacles. The light Bethany had called to her hand sent out a soft glow for many meters around, keeping animals at bay and lighting the way. The others were crashing through the woods like boars. Any stealth they might usually have had was dulled by the wine. Though they hadn't had much, none of them had been prepared for the strength of Antivan liquor, and they were a little too buzzed for Fenris's comfort.

 

Seeing an opportunity to change the subject, he said, "This could have waited until tomorrow. They'd be well-rested and sober, at least."

 

"I don't plan on mounting an invasion; I just think we should check the area. Besides, I don't want to give anyone in town who might recognize your description a chance to do anything... foolish."

 

Fenris bit the inside of his cheek and said nothing. There hadn't been even the hint of an accusation in Alistair's voice, but Fenris felt a prick of guilt anyway. He struggled with his conscience for a moment, then opened his mouth to suggest he leave their company in the morning.

 

"I'm not," Alistair said abruptly.

 

"What?"

 

"A virgin," Alistair mumbled, eyes pinned to the ground. It was hard to tell in the faint glow, but Fenris was willing to bet the man's cheeks were crimson. "On the eve of the final battle against the Archdemon, I had to make a difficult choice. The life of my friend was at stake, and..." He shook his head sharply. "A mage we were traveling with offered a way out, but her, ah, ritual involved one night. I was the only available or acceptable candidate. It wasn't one of my finer moments, but I have no doubt my friend would be dead if I hadn't gone through with it. She has a rather stubborn hero streak."

 

Fenris frowned, confused, but politely declined to probe for clarification. "Well, mages have a tendency to--" At the last second he stopped, hearing the bitterness in his own tone and suddenly keenly aware of the young woman walking not four yards at his back. Bethany had heard some of his rants about mages before, and had seemed sympathetic. And he had never bothered to curb his tongue in front of Hawke's mages in the past. But Bethany didn't deserve his vitriol. For the first time he could remember, he felt guilt at the thought of bad-mouthing mages in front of one of them. "So you have only a bad memory of the act, then," he said instead, calmer.

 

Alistair shrugged, uncomfortable. "I'm not saying it was the worst night in my life or that I flog myself every day in repentance or anything. She certainly, ah," he coughed, "knew what she was doing. But if there had been another way, I'd have done it. She and I didn't even _like_ each other. Not even a little bit. The woman had sooo many issues--" He tripped over a tree root, and Fenris grabbed his elbow quickly to steady him. "Thanks. Anyway, laugh at me if you want, but I guess I had certain ideas about what my first time would be like, and that was certainly not it. Not because I had no choice, not with someone I couldn't stand most of the time."

 

Fenris suppressed a flinch. "No. It should never be like that." He fell silent, his mind in dark places.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

If they'd been anyone but Wardens, they would have stumbled right into the ambush.

 

As it was, Alistair sensed them first, and gave the warning. By the time the darkspawn burst out of cover, their intended victims were ready and waiting for them. Kel smashed in the face of the nearest genlock with his axe, his roar drowning out the screeches of their attackers. "TO THE VOID WITH THESE SMELLY SHITS!"

 

Fenris barely heard, lost in the hum of adrenaline and lyrium as he activated his tattoos and swung his new sword off his back to meet the pair of darkspawn that came clawing for his face. His skin glowing and burning with an old familiar pain, he found himself back to back with Alistair once more, taking on all comers. Cracks and explosions rent the air, lighting up the woods with eerie colors as Bethany spun in place, sending out spell after spell in all directions. Even hung over, the other Grey Wardens were a force to be reckoned with. The brothers fought side by side, while Kel stuck near Bethany, watching her back. Vorin fought alone, and Feila had scrambled up onto a fallen tree and was picking off the darkspawn on the fringes with her bow, her hand moving from quiver to string with incredible speed.

 

"There's so many!" Alistair shouted, bashing a snarling Hurlock aside with his shield. "I thought the guards said they were attacking only in small parties!"

 

Fenris kicked aside a Genlock and lobbed off its head mercilessly before backhanding another with his heavy gauntlet. "Perhaps he was right-- they're coming from somewhere in these woods. We've stirred them up."

 

"Emissary!" Bethany called in warning.

 

"Got it," Feila grunted, loosing an arrow in that direction. "Another headshot for me~ Someone owes me drinks."

 

"We're pushing them back," Matwog cried excitedly, ducking hastily behind his shield to avoid an incoming blow.

 

Fenris took a moment to glance around quickly. The darkspawn had not been expecting to meet such ferocious resistance; some were indeed scurrying off into the night, leaving only a dozen or so behind to fight.

 

"Damn," Alistair gasped in surprise as one of them got past his guard and raked frantically at his armor, trying to find a weakness. Several more crowded in, eager to take down the Warden. Planting his feet firmly, Alistair shouldered the darkspawn aside bodily and thrust out his arm. Fenris felt the shock go through him as the suppressing attack of a Templar rippled outwards, causing damage to all the darkspawn immediately around them. The glowing lyrium embedded in Fenris's skin faltered and faded in response. Caught completely off guard, Fenris stumbled. A screeching genlock threw itself on him, gnawing at his shoulder guard, dangerously close to his exposed arm.

 

"Fenris, keep your mouth closed!" Bewildered, Fenris obeyed without hesitation; as he did so, Alistair twisted and drove his sword through the genlock's throat. Darkspawn blood spurted, spraying Fenris in the face. He shut his eyes automatically, clenching his teeth behind his lips.

 

"You didn't swallow any, did you?" Alistair panted, concerned.

 

The Taint. Hoping the night would hide his reflexive shiver, Fenris carefully wiped the blood from his face before answering. "No." He looked around. Several other darkspawn were fleeing; Kel and the others were dealing with the rest. "You cannot use your Templar tricks when I am so close," he said firmly, reactivating his tattoos with a conscious effort. "Or at least warn me before you do."

 

Alistair blanched. "S-sorry. I had no idea--"

 

Fenris waved it off. "Nor did I." He indicated the retreating darkspawn. "Shall we follow them?"

 

"Yes." Alistair wiped his blade off in the grass as Vorin took down the last Hurlock. "Let's see if they lead us anywhere interesting. Everyone all right?"

 

"Nothing major," Thomas answered, hastily digging a cloth from his pack and using it to tie off a cut on his brother's arm. "I'm sure as shit sober now, though."

 

"Good. Let's get after the bastards."

 

Silent and grim, the group sped off after their quarry.


	7. An Unexpected Letter

 

They encountered and decimated two more squads of darkspawn, after which the woods became almost suspiciously empty of the creatures.

 

"We must be getting close to their hidey hole," Feila insisted, panting for breath as she unstrung her bow with weary fingers. "They're afraid of leading us back there, so they've gone to ground."

 

"Or maybe there _is_ no 'hidey hole'," Vorin retorted, "and we've just killed all the blighters in the area."

 

"Regardless," Kel interrupted firmly, "it's late, and getting dangerously dark in these woods. Not to mention we're still tired from the road." He looked at Alistair expectantly.

 

Alistair looked around at them all, sitting wearily on fallen trees or leaning on their weapons as they caught their breath. "You're right. We'll have to try again tomorrow. Feila, think you can remember the way here? You're the best tracker."

 

"No need." Bethany put her palm against a tree and closed her eyes for a moment. The bark around her palm glowed faintly, flared blue, then faded. "It will only last a day, but I'll be able to trace it tomorrow."

 

"Good." Alistair wiped off his blade and sheathed it firmly. "Let's get back to town. We could all do with a good night's rest in real beds for once."

 

Fenris caught the other man eyeing him surreptitiously and frowned. The worrywart had been giving him nervous sidelong looks ever since that close call with the genlock. "I haven't been infected. You'd know by now if I had been."

 

"True. Sorry, I just... I've seen it happen too many times." He waved an arm. "Move out, people."

 

They trudged their way through the woods, ever on the lookout for another attack that never came. The lights on the walls were a welcome sight by the time they exited the trees and found themselves on the main road an hour later.

 

"A bath," Bethany was murmuring, stumbling on leaden feet. "Food. A bed. Thank the Maker. And if anyone tries to wake me up before midmorning, I'll turn them into stone. I mean that."

 

The guards at the gate spotted them and raised their spears with nervous tension, calling out their challenge. The instant Alistair stepped into the torchlight, they sagged with relief.

 

"Any luck?" one asked eagerly.

 

"Later," his partner said, pointing directly at Fenris. "You there. The _sindaco_ wants to see you right away."

 

Fenris went stiff with alarm. In the same instant, armor clanked as Alistair, Kel, and Matwog instinctively put their hands to their sheathed weapons.

 

"What's this about?" Alistair asked, voice carefully neutral. "Can't it wait until morning?"

 

"He says it is urgent. You are welcome to go as well, Warden, but his message is for the elf."

 

"The elf has a name," Bethany said hotly, but Alistair silenced her with a quick look.

 

"Very well," he said. "Let's see what he wants. We'll meet the rest of you at the inn later."

 

"I'm coming," Bethany hissed, shooting the guards a suspicious glare. "Antivans won't worry about a woman escorting you, but if things get hairy you might want a mage in there."

 

Alistair hesitated, then nodded. Exchanging grim looks with the others, the three followed as one of the guardsmen beckoned.

 

They were led to the largest building in town, a blocky stone affair with a stable tacked on the side and a small regiment of guards patrolling the grounds. Word was sent ahead, and they were admitted the moment they reached the tall door.

 

"Serrah Basilio awaits you in his private office," the guard said once they were inside, indicating a side door. Inclining his head, he left them.

 

The three friends frowned at each other uneasily. "If he wanted to arrest me, he'd have sent the guards," Fenris pointed out. "And they haven't disarmed us."

 

"Perhaps," Alistiar agreed reluctantly. "Something's still odd. Let's see what the man wants." He drew a deep breath and knocked once on the door.

 

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

The _sindaco_ was an average looking man in his forties, with thinning hair, a paunch, and tired grey eyes. He took one look at Fenris and came forward to seize the startled elf's hand in a welcoming handshake.

 

"Yes, yes, you must be the one I've been told of. That hair, those markings-- there's no mistake. When I heard you'd gone with the Wardens into the woods, I feared I would be the bearer of bad news for your friends."

 

"I'm... sorry, what..?" Fenris stammered, completely lost. Bethany and Alistair looked equally nonplussed.

 

"You have powerful friends," Basilio claimed, digging in his breast pocket and producing a folded parchment. Fenris looked at it helplessly when it was offered, too embarrassed to tell the man he was unable to read.

 

Bethany realized the problem and accepted the letter for him. Opening it, she scanned it briefly, eyes darting to the bottom to read the signature. Her eyes widened in almost comical surprise. "Sebastian??" she blurted.

 

" _What?_ " Fenris leaned over to look, staring at the fancy penmanship, cursing his lack of education.

 

"I received this letter from the Prince of Starkhaven not two days ago," the _sindaco_ said, looking pleased at their reactions, hands thrust deep in his pockets. "I think he must have sent them to several towns and cities, trying to locate you."

 

Bethany read the letter again, more slowly this time. "Apparently not everyone was happy with what my sister did," she said after several moments. "Isabela and Aveline were trying to figure out how to track you down, and went to Sebastian; he offered to send out letters to all the towns and cities that you might possibly touch base in. He says Isabela was very insistent that you'd find some way to escape again." She glanced up at the smiling _sindaco_. "He's asked that any word of your sighting be reported to him, and that contact be made."

 

"Yes," Basilio interrupted. "I am to make sure you have a place to stay and that you are treated with respect. If you are willing to wait patiently, His Highness can have you sent for."

 

"I thought you said this Sebastian guy was a priest," Alistair said, puzzled.

 

Bethany grimaced. "He's both. Sort of. It's complicated."

 

Fenris barely heard them. "Sent for? What does that mean?" His mind was still reeling at the implications of what Bethany had said. They were looking for him? Sebastian, so determined to leave his title behind, had used said title to track him down and gain the cooperation of this town's mayor?

 

"Back to Kirkwall, he means," Bethany said, looking at him carefully. "Or anywhere you like. He just wants to make sure you arrive there safely. He says he'll understand if you don't want to come back to Kirkwall, but that he wants you to know there are people there who are worried about you." She gazed at the letter in her hands. "He wishes he'd been there that day to stop my sister. He also sends along Aveline's regrets for not having done what she knew to be right."

 

Fenris resisted the sudden need to sit down. He locked his knees and stared at the wall, emotions a tangled mess of anger, resentment, and disbelief. He'd always gotten on fairly well with Sebastian, but this was completely unexpected. He could feel his face burning, and his throat felt strangely tight. They wanted him back. Even Aveline.

 

Bethany closed her eyes briefly, a smile playing at her lips. "I knew Sebastian was a good man," she murmured, almost to herself. She flushed suddenly, and made a big deal of refolding the letter, avoiding the eyes of the men.

 

Alistair was looking at Fenris. "This is good news, right?"

 

Fenris looked back at him, still unable to make his mind work correctly. "I..."

 

"You do not have to answer right away," Basilio pointed out. "I cannot send a reply until the morning, anyway. The roads are much too dangerous at night. Ah, speaking of which-- did you have any luck in the woods?"

 

"I have to go," Fenris said abruptly. Ignoring how rude he was being, he turned and strode from the office.

 

"Fenris!" Alistair wavered, looking from Basilio to the door helplessly.

 

Bethany, who'd moved automatically to follow the elf, hesitated and sent Alistair a strange look. "I can debrief the _sindaco_ , Alistair," she offered quietly. "Why don't you go after him? Make sure he's all right."

 

"Yes, yes," Basilio agreed, looking concerned by Fenris's strange reaction. "I will have the young lady escorted back to her lodgings."

 

Alistair murmured his thanks, bowed his head in a formal farewell, and hurried out.

 

He had to chase Fenris almost two blocks, calling him, before the smaller man finally seemed to become aware of him. He stopped abruptly and turned on his heel to regard Alistair with a blank face as the Warden jogged up, panting.

 

"I'm wearing way too much armor to go trotting around like this," Alistair protested, leaning over with his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. "And I'm not getting any younger, you know." He straightened, expression sympathetic. "Are you all right? Do you want to talk about it?"

 

"No," Fenris snarled, then stopped himself. He drew in a deep breath, forcing back his unexplainable irritation. "I just... don't know what to think of this. I need to be alone."

 

"Do you want to go back to Kirkwall?" Alistair asked bluntly.

 

"I..." Fenris lifted his eyes towards the night sky to avoid looking at the other man, a frown pulling at his mouth. "No." He didn't realize he'd known the answer all along until it was out of his mouth. "I can't go back there. And not just because Hawke is still there. The tensions there between Templars and mages get worse every year. It was a place to run to. It wasn't home."

 

"So where will you go?" Alistair stepped closer, trying to make out the man's expression in the faint light from a nearby window. "You no longer have to run from that Danarius man."

 

"I know that."

 

"So what _are_ you running from?" there was a note of frustration in the Warden's voice, and Fenris bristled in response.

 

"I'm not running anymore," he snapped.

 

"Aren't you? You sure are eager to leave us. And do you realize how often you look over your shoulder, looking for someone that isn't there anymore?"

 

Fenris shoved him.

 

It was a quick, hard slap of palm to chest that caught the other man off guard and staggered him back a step. "You know nothing about me!" Fenris snarled, unable to comprehend or quell the sudden rush of anger. "You have no idea what I've been through or what I had to put up with for years with that bastard."

 

"Then _tell_ me!"

 

"It's none of your business. And what do you care, anyway?"

 

"We're friends, Fenris," Alistair insisted, a note of hurt in his tone. "You can trust me."

 

"I'm through trusting!" Fenris stopped and took a deep breath, bringing his voice down to a more manageable level. "Danarius is dead, but the price on my head won't disappear overnight. And there were other magisters who were jealous of his prize _pet_. All Varania has to do is let them know I'm up for grabs and earn herself a new apprenticeship-- all because _you_ had a stroke of ill-timed conscience and let her go!"

 

"She was your sister. Did you honestly expect me to just sit there and watch you kill her? You'd have regretted it, I promise you. Maybe not now, but--"

 

"What the hell would you know about that?"

 

"I had-- have --a sister. She wasn't exactly sister of the year, either, even if she's nowhere near as bad as yours. She's still one of the only family members I have left. Even if I never see her again, it's nice to know she's there."

 

"You're a fool." Fenris turned away and stalked off.

 

Alistair hurried after him stubbornly. "You'll have to come up with a more original insult than that. Trust me, I've been called an idiot far more times than--"

 

Fenris shoved him again, harder this time. The man's proximity was making him tense and aggressive, and he couldn't seem to make sense of any of his emotions. "Let me be, Warden," he commanded angrily. "I want to be alone, damn you."

 

"If you don't want to talk to me, at least wait for Bethany to catch up--"

 

" _Alone!_ Do you understand what that means? Leave me to my thoughts!"

 

"You're the one who just pointed out that you still have a price on your head!" He reached out and put his hand on Fenris's arm. "Do you honestly expect me to just--"

 

"Let go of me!" Fenris turned on him, seized him by the shoulders, and slammed him into the nearest building, hard enough to make the potted plant on the windowsill shake. For one blinding moment of insanity, he felt the urge to sink his fist into the man's chest and grip his heart, if only to get the idiot's attention.

 

They froze, staring at each other wildly, Alistair's hands up in the air in a meek sign of surrender. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm just worried about you."

 

"Why the hell do you care?" Fenris demanded, hating himself for the odd hint of desperation he could hear in his own voice. His grip tightened, making the armor creak.

 

"Not everyone is like Danarius or Hawke, Fenris," Alistair said, voice still soft, like he was trying to calm a wild dog. "If anything, Sebastian's letter should prove that. I'm sorry your life's been shit, Fenris, I really am. But you've got to start trusting _someone_ , or you'll be looking over your shoulder the rest of your life. No one should live like that. You're a free man, Fenris. You've got to learn to put the past behind you or it will tear you apart."

 

"You--" Suddenly Fenris's anger faded as if it had never been. He felt exhausted in the face of Alistair's stubborn concern. He lowered his head, his grip on the man's shoulders suddenly more desperate than aggressive. "I don't think I know how." The words were out before he could stop them, and his shoulders hunched up in shame at the admittance. He released Alistair abruptly and stepped away from him, eyes still averted. "Let's go back to the inn," he said gruffly. "I... need to rest."

 

"What a touching scene."

 

Startled, they turned sharply at the new voice.

 

On either end of the street were half a dozen armed men, eyeing them with obvious malice. At their head was a man who looked oddly familiar. It was Alistair who recognized him first. "The man from the brothel," he murmured. "The magistrate. Maker's breath, I knew he'd be trouble."

 

"Good," Fenris said coldly, facing the scowling man and reaching for his sword. "A little violence might do me good."

 

The magistrate held up a scrap of cloth with a crude drawing on it that vaguely resembled Fenris. "I thought your exotic looks were a bit familiar," he sneered. "You're not very humble for an escaped slave."

 

Alistair's sword came free of its sheath with a hiss of steel. "Your information is outdated," he said, voice hard. "Fenris is a free man, and under the protection of the _sindaco_ and the Grey Wardens."

 

"The Grey Wardens have no authority here," the magistrate sneered. "And the _sindaco_ knows the law." He gestured imperiously. "Seize them. Kill the Warden if you must, but I want the elf alive."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (since Antiva is said to be heavily influenced by Italy, I cheated and used "sindaco ", which is about the equivalent to a mayor in Italian communities)


	8. Sleepless Night

Bethany swallowed a sigh, forcing herself to smile genially at the stiff-lipped pair of guards on either side of her. Despite her initial insistence that she would be able to make it back to the inn perfectly fine by herself, the _sindaco_ had sent the two with her. Feila had mentioned how delicately Antivans had been known to treat women, but she was feeling more irritated than flattered by the attention. It didn't help that they had managed to flirt with her three times in the five minutes they'd been with her. "Thank you, you're too kind," she said. "But I really am all right on my own." _It's barely four blocks away,_ she added internally, exasperated.

 

They would hear none of her protests, however. "Our town is a peaceful one, but no lady should walk the streets at night unescorted," the taller one insisted, seeming flabbergasted at her continued if polite resistance. At least he'd given up trying to get her to link arms with him. It seemed that her friendship with the Prince of Starkhaven had labeled her a Lady in the eyes of the _sindaco_ and his men, Grey Warden rank or no. She felt the comforting weight of her staff on her back and smiled slightly. The concealing spell her father had taught her had saved her life more times than she could count, especially in Kirkwall. The armed guard was a bit sweet, but unnecessary. She found herself wondering if the guardsmen would be so solicitous if they realized they walked with an apostate. Even the Circle frowned upon mages in the Wardens that hadn't been "loaned" to the cause by the Templars.

 

The man on her left came to a sudden halt, swiveling his head right and then left. "Do you hear that?"

 

His companion frowned, but Bethany heard it as well-- the shouts of men and the crash of swords meeting in battle.

 

"Wait here, my Lady," the taller guard commanded; drawing their blades, the guards rushed off down the street.

 

Bethany hesitated. She could give them the slip and get back to the inn, but then they might scour the streets looking for her. She might even get them in trouble. Still, she wasn't about to wait around like a lump on a log while there was fighting going on. Someone might be in dire need of a healer. She hurried after the guardsmen, her lighter footsteps unheard over the clank of their armor.

 

They rounded a corner and came upon the fighting, where they stood trying to make sense of it in the flickering light of the torch one of the guards carried. Bethany recognized the tell-tale flare of lyrium and gasped. "Those are my friends!" she said sharply, startling both guards.

 

"My Lady, we told you to--"

 

"Help them! Those two are Grey Wardens!"

 

Shoving the torch into her hand and pointing firmly at the ground in a silent command to stay put, the guard waved his sword aloft and shouted imperiously, "Stop this at once in the name of the _sindaco_!"

 

He was of course ignored.

 

The other guard took a bone whistle from around his neck and blew it twice sharply; calling for backup, no doubt. This, at least, seemed to give the fighters a bit of a pause, and two of them turned and fled into the shadows. Yelling, the guards hurled themselves into the fight. Bethany hesitated, unsure if she should risk using her magic inside the town walls. Fenris and Alistair seemed to be handling themselves just fine, fighting back-to-back in a style that seemed to have become a swift habit in their travels. One of the men, who'd been hanging back and shouting orders, tried to slink away down a side street. Bethany looked towards the guards to make sure they were preoccupied, and sent a hasty localized paralyzing spell at the man, locking his feet to the street instantly.

 

He yelled in alarm, struggling ineffectually to free himself, and Bethany hurried over to him. "Who are you?" she demanded, lifting the torch to see his face better. The spell would not last long. "Why are you attacking my friends?"

 

"Get away from me, woman!" he raged, trying to hit her in the face. She ducked, dropping the torch, and at that moment the spell dissolved. He stumbled, found his balance, and shoved her aside roughly, dashing off down an alley.

 

"Bethany!" A strong arm steadied her, and she caught a glimpse of Alistair's familiar armor out of the corner of her eye.

 

"He went that way!" she shouted, pointing down the alley. "Stop him!"

 

"No need," Fenris said shortly, coming forward with a blood-soaked blade. His face tightened in concentration, and the lyrium marks dimmed. "We know who he is. He should be easy for the city guards to apprehend."

 

The pair of guards staggered over, panting and staring at Fenris as if he was a ghost. "Who is he?" one of them finally demanded, casting a glance back at the strewn bodies of the mercenaries.

 

"He said he was the local magistrate. A tall man with graying hair."

 

The guards exchanged a quick look and stepped aside to converse in low voices.

 

Bethany retrieved her torch and turned to face Alistair, concerned. "Are you all right?" She looked him over for injuries before turning her attention on Fenris, who was not so covered in protective plate mail. "What was that about?"

 

"We had a run-in with him at the brothel," Alistair sighed. "He tried to, ah, proposition Fenris, and was not pleased at being turned down. And now he knows about the bounty on Fenris's head." He noticed Fenris eyeing him oddly and realized his hand was still on Bethany's shoulder. He let his hand drop awkwardly. "Did you debrief the _sindaco_?"

 

She nodded, but the guards came forward once more before she could elaborate. "You are certain this man was the magistrate?" one asked, looking concerned. "Did he give his name?"

 

Alistair frowned at him. "No, I never caught his name. Why?"

 

"Ask the owner of the Cat's Fancy," Fenris put in. "He's a regular customer; she'll know who he was."

 

"Why?" Bethany asked suspiciously. "What's the problem?"

 

The guard coughed. "The local magistrate, Serrah Veil, is the _sindaco's_ cousin."

 

"And that shields him from justice?" Fenris demanded scornfully, causing both guards to bristle.

 

"Never mind," Alistair interrupted. "Let's get back to the inn and let the guardsmen do their job. Come on. We all need the rest. It's been a long night."

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

They returned to the inn, exhausted both physically and mentally. Fenris shoved all thoughts of Sebastian's letter to the back of his mind. That was something he would deal with in the morning. For now, all he wished to do was sleep.

 

Bethany had stepped over to the innkeeper to ask for their rooms, and now she returned, rubbing tiredly at her face. "The others just sort of packed into the rooms, so I hope you hadn't been hoping to bunk in any one specific room. I tried to save the biggest room for you, Alistair, but apparently Kel claimed it."

 

"He _is_ the biggest," Alistair admitted. "I don't need a big room, Bethany."

 

"There's one room left, and I think I can share with Feila. There's only one bed, but I can shove her over and make room."

 

Fenris hesitated, suddenly a little more alert. His gaze flickered between Alistair and Bethany thoughtfully. If not for Isabela's constant attempts to play matchmaker with her friends back in Kirkwall, the idea might never have occurred to him at all, but suddenly he saw an opportunity here. Bethany and her Captain were very close. Closer, perhaps, than just friends. He should let them have the extra room to themselves. Something in his stomach twisted at the thought, but he ignored it.

 

He opened his mouth to offer to sleep on the floor in Feila's room, but noticed Alistair sending a suspiciously weighted look his way before switching that look to Bethany. Both men hesitated.

 

Bethany arched a brow at them and put her hands on her hips. "Something on your minds?" she asked with a note of impatience.

 

"No," Fenris mumbled, embarrassed and confused.

 

At his denial, Alistair shook his own head helplessly.

 

"The room's at the end of the hall. Good night, boys." Without a backwards look, she headed up the stairs, rolling her eyes at the hopelessness of them both.

 

There was a long moment of awkward silence after she'd left. Still not looking at the other man, Alistair finally said, quietly, "I... thought you two would like the other room."

 

"Us?" Fenris turned a startled look his way. "You two are the ones who--"

 

"It's not like that," Alistair sputtered, flushing. He sighed suddenly, running his hands repeatedly through his hair to fight off his exhaustion. "Bethany's special. She's..." He hesitated, grasping for an explanation. "She's like a sister. Or... what a sister _should_ be like. You know?"

 

Thinking of Varania-- and Alistair's mention of his own sister --Fenris nodded slowly, heart constricting in his chest. The idea was... a novel one. The more he dwelled on it, the more peace it brought him. The ragged hole inside of him Varania had torn out felt smaller than it had before.

 

Disturbed by these thoughts and emotions, he strode past the taller man abruptly, climbing the stairs. "Dibs on the bed," he said in a rare moment of teasing.

 

"Hey!" They bolted up the stairs in a race for the room, ignoring the innkeeper's call of rebuke for the noise.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

The fire in the hearth crackled, and a log popped loudly as the flames found some sap. Alistair jumped at the noise, already on edge. He sat tensely in the middle of the bed, fingers clutching nervously at the blanket, warmed by the fire's proximity. There was a brief knock on the door, and he swallowed hard, closing his eyes.

 

_I don't want to do this,_ the fearful part of his mind murmured desperately.

 

He told it to shut up. "Want" had nothing to do with it. If he didn't do this, Brosca would die.

 

_Riordan will deal the final blow!_ his mind insisted. _There's no need for this!_

 

But he knew there was no guarantee Riordan would succeed. If he was killed, it would fall to the only other Grey Wardens in Ferelden. His choices were bleak: he could die, or allow Brosca to die. And even if he thought he might find the courage to be the martyr, a part of him knew it would never happen. Brosca, fearless, stubborn, and protective of her friends to a fault, wouldn't let him near the Archdemon.

 

So it was do this one simple thing, this one act that most men would leap at the chance to commit, or let his friend go to her death.

 

He wouldn't do that. He couldn't.

 

The bed shifted with added weight, and his fingers clenched once more at the blanket. He couldn't seem to make himself open his eyes, still quailing on the inside. So many doubts hammered at his skull. He didn't know what he was doing. He'd do it wrong. He'd hurt her, or finish it too quickly. Why did it have to be _her?_ She'd laugh at him. He wasn't even sure he could stand the sight of her face after all the cruel things he'd heard her say.

 

_I can't do this._

 

_I must._

 

A hand landed on his chest, gently easing him onto his back, and warm breath fell on his face. Digging for courage, hoping he didn't look as petrified as he felt, he opened his eyes.

 

He stared into solemn green eyes and felt a jolt of shock go through him.

 

"Relax." The deep voice made him shudder reflexively, the soft timbres affecting him in an almost alarming way.

 

"Fenris? What- what are you doing here?"

 

The elf's mouth moved in a smile, brief but genuine. "Do you want me to leave?"

 

"Maker, no," he gasped, then shut his mouth, embarrassed at such a hasty response.

 

Fenris chuckled, and Alistair's heart began hammering against his ribs. His eyes slammed shut once more as the other man stretched out on top of him, heavier than he looked, and put that mouth right by Alistair's ear. He began speaking, his voice low and rough and unintelligible, and everything in Alistair suddenly burned with a fierce want he didn't fully understand. He raised a shaking hand to touch that shock of odd white hair

 

and jolted upright in his bed in the inn with a gasp, nightshirt soaked with sweat.

 

He clapped a hand to his mouth, eyes darting towards the floor and the figure lying there. They'd drawn straws for the bed, and Fenris had seemed undisturbed by his loss; he claimed to have slept on many hard surfaces in his life, and wouldn't put up with Alistair's last-minute arguments. He was curled up in the fetal position now, wrapped up in a blanket, back firmly pressed against the wall and sword lying inches from his fingers. He was breathing deeply, eyes still shut. Slowly Alistair relaxed, grateful he hadn't awoken his roommate.

 

The dream teased at his mind, barely tangible, little more than flashes of imagery and sensation, and he shivered violently. The details weren't there, but try as he might, he could not keep the overall _sense_ of the dream at bay.

 

He'd dreamed of that night again, the night he'd lain with Morrigan. Only this time it hadn't been the witch who'd crept into his bed.

 

He buried his face in his hands, feeling the heat of his flushed cheeks. "Andraste save me," he whispered, barely audible. Where had such a dream come from? Fenris was attractive; any fool could see that. But he was a friend. A comrade in arms. Alistair had no right to be having... _those_ sorts of dreams about the elf.

 

He stifled a groan behind clenched teeth. How in the Maker's name was he supposed to act normal around Fenris tomorrow? How would he look him in the eye?

 

Wracked by guilt and worry, it was hours before he was able to sleep again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I've always found it baffling that mages weren't instantly recognized in Thedas (mostly in DA2) by the WHOPPING GREAT MAGIC STAFFS THEY CARRY, I made up the concealing spell; in this fic, Bethany uses it to basically make her staff invisible so long as she's not using it.


	9. Consequences

Kel shoved his empty plate away and leaned his elbows on the table. He shot suspicious glances towards the inn's other patrons, finishing their meals at separate tables. Alistair had just finished telling them of the night's attack, and everyone was on edge. "So you think we'd better get out of town sharpish, then? No telling, really, who the guards will back up."

 

"The mayor, _sindaco_ , whatever they call him, he's the head cheese around here," Matwog argued, scooping up the last of his runny eggs onto a crust of bread. "The guards answer to him before they answer to the magistrate, don't they?"

 

"Politics are funny sometimes," Feila admitted with a shrug. "We're not in Ferelden anymore; things are a little less cut-and-dry. The guards-- for the most part --will follow their Captain. So it really depends on who the Captain is loyal to."

 

"And this _sindaco_ might turn a blind eye to what the magistrate's doing, since they're cousins," Thomas said. "The guards certainly will. Unless they're ordered to go after him, they're probably going to avoid the magistrate like he has the plague, and just hope we hurry up and leave."

 

"Not if they want us to solve their darkspawn problem for them," Bethany said huffily. "The nerve of these people."

 

Fenris looked towards Alistair, waiting for his input, but the other man had been staring at his plate with apparent fascination all morning, refusing to make eye contact with him. He was still shoveling the last of his breakfast into his mouth, so Fenris dismissed the man's odd behavior and joined in the conversation reluctantly. He was no Grey Warden, but they were in trouble because of him. He felt obliged to make up for it. "I can leave," he offered. "The rest of you have a job to do; if I'm not here, they'll leave you alone."

 

"What??" Alistair looked up, startled. "No! You said you'd--" Fenris's eyes swung his way, and the Warden's face suddenly flushed scarlet, gaze dropping hastily back to his plate. Fenris stared at him, nonplussed.

 

The others were also protesting vehemently. "Don't let one stuck-up bully run you off!" Bethany said, looking offended at the very notion. "He has no legal right to arrest you."

 

"That bounty became obsolete the instant Danarius kicked the bucket," Matwog added firmly, jabbing the tabletop with his finger for emphasis. "We just have to clear this up with the Guard Captain, and it'll be fine. You'll see."

 

"Who _cares_?" Vorin interrupted suddenly, speaking for the first time that morning. He looked up from his breakfast long enough to scowl at his comrades, shooting Fenris an unfriendly look. "He wants to go, he should go. Let him clean up his own mess. We've got a job to do, don't we?"

 

Kel glared at the man, clenching his fork in his fist ominously. "No one asked you, you little--"

 

Alistair held up a hand to silence them, face stern. Fenris noted he was careful not to look in his direction. "Enough. I'll talk to Captain Salva and get this mess settled before it goes too far. The rest of you gear up. I want to check out those woods again, the sooner the better. Besides, out of sight, out of mind. They can't hassle us while we're hunting darkspawn."

 

Grumbling and pointedly ignoring Vorin, the others pushed their chairs back and trooped upstairs. Fenris remained seated, however, eyeing Alistair with a solemn frown. "You're acting oddly this morning," he said bluntly once they were alone. "More oddly than usual, that is." Alistair's eyes remained glued to his plate as he half-heartedly scraped up the last bits of his breakfast. Fenris felt the stirrings of an unhappy suspicion. Perhaps Alistair secretly agreed with Vorin. Fenris was bringing trouble to the Wardens, and Alistair had made it clear from the beginning that he would brook no threat to those under his command. "I was being sincere," he said quietly. "I have no problem leaving if--"

 

"I don't want you to leave, damn it," Alistair blurted in frustration. He put his fork down and ran his hands through his hair roughly, still refusing to lift his gaze.

 

Fenris felt a flash of irrational annoyance. "Then look me in the face and say that," he snapped.

 

Alistair glanced up at last, meeting Fenris's eyes. His mouth was a thin pale line, and his cheeks were reddening once more. "Stay. I mean it." He hesitated, then added more quietly, "Please."

 

Fenris shifted in his chair uncomfortably, feeling his ears grow hot. This time he was the first to avert his eyes. "I don't want to be responsible for putting the Wardens at risk," he muttered sullenly, alarmed by his own unease.

 

"We can look after ourselves, Fenris."

 

"As can I."

 

"Damn it, will you stop being so _difficult_?" Alistair complained. "Look, you can't go, it would... ah..." He looked around desperately for inspiration. "Bethany would be heartbroken."

 

Fenris stared at him, unconvinced. "I already told you I don't feel that way about her."

 

"That's not what I meant-- I said stop it!"

 

"Stop what?" Fenris snapped, annoyed.

 

"Aghh!" Alistair let his head thump down on the table. "I'm saying this all wrong." He took a deep breath and lifted his head once more, meeting the elf's baffled stare. "Look. We're friends, right? And... Bethany is your friend. Right?"

 

"Uh.."

 

"As your friend, I'm _asking_ you to stay. All right? You can leave if that's what you really want, but... I don't want you to feel obligated to go. Vorin's the only one who has a problem with you. And he has a problem with everybody."

 

"Oh, Maker, this is _painful_ to watch."

 

They both jumped at Feila's aggrieved voice. She was standing at the bottom of the stairs with her bag over one shoulder, grimacing at them in displeasure. "Look, you'll have to deal with awkward-feeling-time later, okay? Kel says he can see a patrol of guardsmen coming down the street from his window. I say we get out of town now and deal with Salva later."

 

"Probably for the best," Alistair agreed, getting to his feet. "We'll clear this up after we've taken care of the darkspawn." He hastened past her to get his things from his room.

 

Feila caught Fenris's gaze and held it. "Are you coming?" she asked quietly.

 

Fenris hesitated, eyes shifting unconsciously towards the door.

 

He should leave. He was only going to cause the Wardens more trouble.

 

Feila sighed. "Let me rephrase that." She came over to the table and put her hand on his shoulder, startling him. "We don't want you to leave, Fenris. Please come with us. Don't make me have to hogtie you."

 

He gave a startled snort of laughter before he could stop himself. Rising to his feet, he shouldered his sword. "Very well. For now, at least, it seems you're stuck with me."

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

The Wardens were out of the inn and hurrying through the streets in record time. It took Fenris a few moments to realize he'd somehow been jostled to the center of the group, hemmed in by the protective circle of Wardens. They managed to slip past the first group of guardsmen, but a second patrol had anticipated their flight and was blocking the north end of their escape route, quickly fanning out to block the end of the street.

 

The group halted, pressing close together and practically obscuring Fenris from sight. Captain Salva came jogging up, huffing from his attempt to catch up with the Wardens. "Please, just one moment," he called, and paused to catch his breath. He addressed Alistair, meeting the man's unwavering glare. "I would speak with you a moment."

 

"We're heading off to hunt the darkspawn plaguing your city," Alistair cut him off. The verbal blow had a visible effect; Salva winced, eyes lowering briefly. "Stand aside. We can speak once we're done."

 

"Our business is not with the Wardens," Salva assured him quickly, indicating Fenris. "Only with the slave you--"

 

Bethany's hand shot up inches from his face and burst into flames, causing the alarmed Captain to stumble back out of harm's way. "Fenris is not a slave anymore," she snapped furiously. "His master is dead. There's no one to pay your precious bounty, so _back off_."

 

"Not very diplomatic, Beth," Alistair murmured, looking embarrassed yet pleased as he reached out and gently eased her arm down, keeping his light grip carefully near her elbow and away from the flames.   
With an angry mutter, Bethany extinguished the fire.

 

"Apostate," one of the guards gasped, making a protective gesture.

 

Bethany flushed, and for just a moment an old fear flickered to life in her eyes. She shrank back instinctively, the reaction of a cornered animal that had been running all its life. Seeing this unconscious reaction, Fenris felt a blow that felt like realization and guilt at the same time strike him in the stomach. For all his railing against mages and the dangers of apostates, he seemed to always forget that Bethany fell into this category. And yet she was no abomination; nor had she ever hurt anyone who didn't attack her first. She'd been on the run even longer than Fenris had. Seeing that old panic rise in her face banished his own instinctive flight response the sight of the guards had stirred in him.

 

Alistair's voice rang out, silencing the frightened murmurs of the men. "Bethany is a Warden. She's no apostate. And I've already made it clear that Fenris is under the protection of the Grey Wardens. If any of you feel like being stupid enough to try and take them from us, we'll be forced to retaliate." To drive the point helpfully home, Kel casually unsheathed his battleaxe, alerting the nervous guards to his great size and menacing scowl.

 

"Now who's being diplomatic?" Bethany teased Alistair with a slightly quaver in her voice. But she regained the steel in her spine

 

"Who sent you out here?" Alistair demanded, pinning Salva with an accusatory stare. "Magistrate Veil?" Their uncomfortable silence was answer enough. "I really hate to throw names around," he continued, "but Fenris did just meet with your _sindaco_ yesterday, and he seemed to have no problem with his presence. Probably because the Prince of Starkhaven specifically asked him to help Fenris out if he should pass through Prato."

 

The names had the desired effect. The guards shifted uneasily, shooting each other uncertain looks. Salva had visibly blanched.

 

"Now stand aside," Alistair commanded in a quiet voice, "so we can go after these darkspawn."

 

Salva hesitated, then came to a decision. He stepped back, signaling for his men to do likewise with a curt wave of his hand. The Wardens moved as one past the guards, only relaxing once they'd left the men several streets back.

 

Matwog let out a sigh of relief. "Let's get out of here," he insisted. "Darkspawn can't be any harder than legalities and politics."

 

"Agreed," Alistair said grimly, and they hurried from the town before Salva could change his mind.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

Bethany led the way, tracking the spell she'd lain down the previous night, while the others watched her back. The expected attack never came, however. This seemed to make Alistair uneasy.

 

“Darkspawn don't back down from a fight, and it takes them a long time to realize they're outmatched,” he said, shifting his shield in a nervous grip. “There's no way they'd be avoiding us for self-preservation. Not when there's so few of us.”

 

“You mentioned talking darkspawn who seemed intelligent,” Fenris put in with a sudden suspicion. “Do you think that has something to do with it?”

 

“Maybe there's one in the area calling the shots, you mean?” The Warden looked unhappy. “Maker, I hope not. Without someone controlling them, darkspawn are pretty much just mindless ravagers. Without the Archedemon to point them in the right direction, they should have just gone back to the Deep Roads to cool their heels for another Age. The last thing we need is someone with an actual brain in charge of them. I'm not even sure how we'd stop that. I have no idea how many talking darkspawn there are. We could spend years hunting them all down.”

 

“Is that your idea of a pep talk?” Feila asked tensely. “Because that was horrible.”

 

“Sorry,” Alistair apologized.

 

“We're nearly there,” Bethany cut in. “Might want to keep it down.”

 

The others fell silent and drew their weapons. They reached the correct tree, the mark in the wood glowing faintly, but no ambush awaited them. The Wardens stood for a moment, uptight and uncertain. “I sense them, but I don't see them,” Thomas muttered.

 

“Now what?” Vorin demanded, stabbing his sword into the ground so he could mess with a loose strap on his armor. He scowled at Alistair. “We could look all day and never fi--”

 

Screeching, a genlock fell like a stone from the tree he was under, driving Vorin to the ground with a shattering crash of armor.

 

“They're in the blighted trees!” Matwog yelped, yanking out his sword as a whole band of the creatures rained down from the branches, catching the party completely unawares.

 

Feila was knocked aside by a heavy backhanded blow. She hit a tree hard and sagged to the ground, half unconscious. Without hesitation Kel put himself in front of her and lobbed off the head of the nearest darkspawn, giving her time to recover.

 

The area was a scene of chaos. The shrieks and roars of darkspawn drowned out the shouts of the Wardens as a desperate battle broke out. There were over twenty of the monsters, and they were deliberately ganging up on each Warden, keeping them from fighting back to back.

 

Fenris was closest to Vorin. He slew the darkspawn jumping up and down on the man's back and yanked him to his feet. Still a little dazed, Vorin staggered towards his sword. Fenris gritted his teeth and watched the man's back, killing two more darkspawn. He would need the man's sword; he couldn't reach any of the other Wardens, and he was practically surrounded already. He swung his sword like a man shearing wheat, cutting down any darkspawn who were stupid enough to come in reach.

 

Vorin seemed to have recovered his senses; in a moment he was close to Fenris, stabbing and slashing at their attackers, eyes wild and teeth bared in a grimace of desperation. Fenris kicked a genlock in the face when it got too close and took the brief second's reprieve to glance around quickly for Alistair. The Warden had been cut off from the others, but seemed to be holding his own. His armor was far too strong for the darkspawn to give him too much trouble-- yet –and he was wreaking havoc with sword and shield. Fenris's eyes skipped past him and quickly picked out the party's mage. His stomach clenched like a fist inside of him.

 

She, too, had been herded away from help, and was spinning frantically to keep her back from being exposed, shooting bolts of lightning and fire all around her. Her pack-- along with its precious lyrium potions –had been torn from her shoulder and was far out of her reach.

 

A Hurlock took advantage of Fenris's distraction and darted in past his guard. He hissed with surprise as the thing's sword slashed across his exposed arm, leaving a ribbon of blood in its wake. Ignoring the pain, he drove his fist into the darkspawn's chest, crushing its heart ruthlessly.

 

“We have to get to Bethany,” Fenris shouted to Vorin. The man grunted in agreement, and they began hacking their way through the enemy. It was slow going. Fenris felt dread build up inside of him. Everywhere he looked, the Wardens were two steps away from being overwhelmed.

 

Bethany decided to take a desperate chance. "DOWN!" she shouted. "NOW!"

 

The Wardens threw themselves to the ground automatically, and Fenris followed suit, not a moment too soon.

 

With the last of her strength, Bethany called up the biggest lightning spell she could muster, striking out at anything in the area higher than her knee. The crackling bolts leapt from darkspawn to darkspawn in quick succession. Shrieks and the stink of scorched flesh erupted in the air. Fenris closed his eyes tightly, praying the lightning didn't strike the ground and kill them all.

 

Thud after thud made him open his eyes once more. All around him the darkspawn were keeling over, smoking and blistered, some of them with the eyes fried right out of their sockets. Only those on the fringes of the fight seemed to have escaped with injuries rather than the death sentence laid on their fellows' heads, and they were lurching around, gurgling and moaning in agony.

 

Bethany staggered, holding herself upright with the aid of her staff, body drained of magic. She glanced around for her pack, and slowly the Wardens climbed to their feet. "I think you just saved our bacon, Beth," Matwog panted, getting a firmer grip on his sword. "There's not enough left to--"

 

Another dark form dropped down from a tree, so silent and sudden it startled them all into silence.

 

This darkspawn was an unfamiliar kind to Fenris's eyes. It was tall and hooded, with odd markings-- war paint? --across its face. Worst of all was the dark intelligence in its eyes as it surveyed the destruction without any apparent concern. It hefted a mace like it was a toy, eyes flicking around and taking in each Warden in turn. Then it spoke, its voice like sandpaper and venom. "So the rumors are true. Wardens have come to these lands. The last band we tracked was far too weak and pathetic, and the Taint took many of them. It is you we sought."

 

Fenris recoiled slightly, instinctively repulsed by the thing. His grip on his sword's hilt became numbing. The others looked equally disturbed. Kel was slowly and warily edging his way closer to Bethany, hoping to put himself between her and the new menace until she could locate her lyrium.

 

"What others?" Alistair demanded. There was no fear in his tone, and Fenris felt encouraged by it. "You mean the countless innocent travelers you've been picking off? What do you want with us?"

 

"These were no innocents," the speaker rasped. "Quick. Deadly." His mouth spread in a slow, sick smile. "Not deadly enough. Not quick enough." He lifted his mace abruptly, pointing it right at Bethany and addressing Kel. "One more step, and I kill the girl. I can throw this faster than you can move." Kel froze. The thing's bloodshot eyes returned to Alistair. Behind him, the remaining hurlocks and genlocks bunched together, hissing with eager bloodlust but awaiting the command to attack. "You are the ones called Grey Wardens. Those who took our Taint into yourselves. We are tired of living underground in the deep and the dark. We could rise again and wipe you all out. Or you could hear our terms."

 

"Terms?" Alistair repeated incredulously. "Like _what?_ "

 

"We want this land. This... 'Antiva'. For our own. Give it to us. Give us its citizens. Stay away from our borders, and let us live separately but in peace. I cannot guarantee this peace will last forever, but a temporary one is better than none."

 

"You expect us to just sacrifice an entire country and its people to you?" Alistair shook his head furiously. "Are you insane?"

 

"And what will happen to the people here?" Thomas demanded. "Slaves? Food?"

 

The darkspawn's mouth twisted in another unholy smile. "You have your cattle. Let us have ours. Sacrifice them for the greater good."

 

"I have a better idea." Alistair's voice was as final as a death knell. "We kill you here and now and spend the rest of our lives rooting out the rest of your kind."

 

The darkspawn shrugged as if he had not expected any other answer. It drew a wicked dagger from its belt, hefting both it and mace with evil intent. "Perhaps once I have killed enough of you, this 'Hero', this _dwarf_ will show itself and _it_ will be more willing to listen to sense."

 

"Brosca would never--" Bethany started, but Alistair silenced her with a swift glare.

 

"Brosca," the thing repeated, savoring the name. It chuckled, a sound like rocks grinding together. "So that is what it is called. We will find this Brosca, then, after we've killed all of you, and--"

 

"Shut up," said Feila, and followed up this suggestion with a swift arrow from her bow.

 

The darkspawn tried to dodge it, but couldn't avoid the shot completely. The arrow slammed into his shoulder, staggering him a few feet, and the creatures at his back roared in a fury. Their leader yanked the arrow free and flung it away, baring his teeth like a wolf. "Death to the Wardens!" he howled, and sprang at Alistair with a shocking turn of speed.

 

Kel moved incredibly fast for someone of his size. He rushed forward and met the monster head-on. The two crashed to the ground, struggling to thrust their blades through flesh. No one had the chance to aid him; moments later the rest of the darkspawn were swarming over the Wardens. There were less than before, and Fenris had just enough time to dart across the cramped battlefield to stand by Bethany.

 

"Find your bag!" he shouted, slashing at two genlocks in quick succession. Bethany nodded wordlessly, already dropping to her knees and searching frantically, pushing aside bodies and fallen weapons. Rolling a hurlock's corpse over with a grunt of exertion, she finally found it.

 

Fenris heard her moan and realized its implications without having to glance back and check. "No no no," she crooned, and he could hear the clink of broken glass as she rooted through the smashed bag's contents for an untouched bottle. Fear and nausea rose in his mind for a minute, but he ruthlessly shoved it aside. There were more darkspawn pouring out of the woods, and he was left with little options. Still swinging his sword, he took two steps back until he felt his calves bump up against her side where she was still crouching in the dirt. "Use me," he ordered through clenched teeth, concentrating on taking out anything stupid enough to get within reach of his sword. There was a heavy silence as Bethany took in his command first with confusion and then with dawning realization. She opened her mouth to argue, then took another look at the wave of darkspawn and let her protest die. Trying not to feel guilty, she climbed quickly to her feet and reached out almost hesitantly to place her fingertips to the gap of flesh peeking through a cut in the back of Fenris's leather. Right over a twisting glowing band of lyrium.

 

"I'm sorry," she breathed, feeling the muscles under her fingers tense up. Extending her other arm, closing her ears to the shout of pain her friend gave, she drew power from the tattoos in one hand and blasted flames from the other, catching a small group of darkspawn unawares and roasting them where they stood. She clenched her teeth, trying to concentrate. It was much more difficult than drawing on bottled lyrium. This was pure lyrium, something she'd never experimented with before due to its rarity. Even a small touch of it was giving her spells an incredible boost, flooding her with miraculous if temporary power. But she could tell it was hurting her friend, and was fighting an internal battle, trying not to draw from it too much too fast. A corner of her brain, detached from the battle, was in a dizzy panic. _Oh, Maker, what is this doing to him? I can feel him shaking. Is this what Danarius used him for?_

 

But it was use what was available or die, so she muffled her inner conscience and drew from the source again, lashing out with a storm of ice to knock back a whole row of darkspawn, freezing their bodies where they fell. But there were more to replace them, and desperation churned in her belly along with the fierce pleasure in such untapped power. Again and again she struck out, causing devastation to every darkspawn in her sights. Someone screamed. It sounded like Fenris.

 

It took longer than it should have for Alistair's voice to reach her, and by then it had risen to a desperate shout. "STOP IT STOP IT YOU'LL KILL HIM!" A hard hand clamped down on her wrist and wrenched her away from Fenris with almost brutal force, wringing a pained cry from her lips. She staggered, feeling as if the world had tilted upside down, leaving her breathless and bereft now that she'd been so abruptly cut off from the intoxicating power source. Dazed, she caught herself against a tree and took a long look around. Less than a handful of darkspawn remained, and they were hauling ass off into the woods.

 

Still feeling a little dizzy, she looked back to Fenris, and felt her stomach lurch. He'd lost the strength in his legs; they'd buckled, and Alistair was the only thing keeping him up, arms wrapped around the elf's waist as he let the smaller man sag against him. The reproachful look Alistair sent her over Fenris's shoulder sent a stab of guilt straight through her.

 

"Maker, Fenris!" she gasped, shoving herself away from the tree. "I'm so sorry! I didn't--"

 

He flinched when her hand touched his shoulder, and she drew back as though burned. Her eyes blurred, and her voice sounded croaky through a suddenly tight throat. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I- I should've stopped--"

 

"If he's all right, then I suggest you both get over it," Thomas cut in with an unaccustomed harshness in his voice. He was trying to stop the blood flowing freely from a gash on his brother's forehead. "That little stunt probably saved our hides. I think we need to get out of here sharpish. There's no telling when or if more of them will pop up."

 

Feila's tortured wail sliced through the air like a knife.

 

She was crumpled on the ground by a familiar large body, rocking back and forth on her heels and holding Kel's head in her lap. The speaking darkspawn lay broken and bleeding nearby, Kel's axe lodged in its face, nearly cleaving it in half. The creature had gotten the last word, however. Its dagger was buried deep in Kel's throat.

 


	10. Backup

The Wardens knelt in the loam around Kel's body, silent in their grief. Fenris, feeling very much the outsider, had stepped back to give them some privacy and to stand guard. Even Alistair didn't notice his retreat. He looked numb, but less haggard than the others. His was the face of someone who'd seen too many friends fall in battle. Fenris looked away, scanning the treeline and feeling his own pang of regret. He'd not known the big man long, but Kel had always been friendly towards him, and he'd seemed like a good man. Despite the way he teased the others, he'd often gone out of his way to watch his friends' backs in battle. It was leaping to Alistair's defense that had cost him his life.

 

Fenris shifted his weight, feeling worn out and stretched too thin. His skin burned and his body ached. Everything hurt, but there was no salve or medicine that could cure him. He hated the feel of his clothing against his tattoos, and equally hated the lightest touch of the breeze on his flesh. Danarius had used him once before as a walking talking lyrium potion, and he recalled the pain well. It had taken almost two days for him to be able to activate his abilities again, and longer than that for the last of the pain to fade.

 

He shrugged his shoulders instinctively, as if trying to shake off the burning that wrapped around the bands in his neck and back, and sent Bethany a brief glance. She and Feila were holding hands tightly, crying silently now. He'd told her to use him, but his regret tasted sour in his mouth. _Idiot,_ he chided himself. If she hadn't tapped into his lyrium, there might be more than one body laid out in the dirt right now. As much as the familiar pain haunted him with memories and caused him physical discomfort, a part of him insisted he'd made the right choice. It might be Bethany lying there if he hadn't offered himself.

 

It might be Alistair.

 

He shrugged again, mind in a turmoil, and returned his attention to the trees. Vorin had also stepped away from Kel's body earlier and was glowering at his feet. Fenris couldn't decide if the man was upset over the delay or his comrade's death. The man was hard to read. Feeling Fenris's eyes linger on him, Vorin looked up, grimaced, then came over after a brief hesitation.

 

“I owe you my life, elf,” he said grudgingly, glaring at a bush rather than meet Fenris's eyes. “If you hadn't hauled me up and done that thing with your tattoos, I'd be a goner. Prob'ly most of us would be.”

 

Fenris acknowledged the reluctant gratitude with a slight nod, but Vorin didn't notice. He'd gone tense, eyes roving the woodlands, hand on the hilt of his sword. “They're gatherin' together again,” he said quietly. “I can feel 'em. They're out there workin' themselves up for another go at us. Andraste's puckered ass, there's got to be a nest of 'em around here somewhere.” He turned and raised his voice to a surly shout to get his Captain's attention. “Alistair! This ain't the place for cryin'! We don't have long!”

 

Alistair shot him a heated look, but then he must have sensed the presence of the creatures as well. He placed a hand briefly on Bethany's shoulder, then got to his feet. “We can't stay here. We're clearly outnumbered, and now we're down a man. Some of us are injured...” his eyes flickered to Fenris for the briefest moment, but Feila was already overriding him.

 

“What about Kel?” she demanded, refusing to get to her feet. “How are we going to get him back?”

 

There was a long, heavy silence.

 

Finally Matwog said, quietly, “Kel's no lightweight, Fei. We can't carry him all the way back and fight off darkspawn snapping at our heels.”

 

“We can't just _leave_ him!” Bethany cried, jumping up.

 

“We have no choice,” Alistair said. “We have to get out of here fast. We can come back for him--”

 

“Do you have any idea what those things will do to him?” Feila protested. “I've seen what the darkspawn do with the bodies of their enemies. They stake them in the ground or hang them from--”

 

“That's enough,” Alistair snapped, looking raw. “I'm not losing more any more of us. We _can't_ take him, Feila, and you know it. We'll be slowed down too much, and you can feel how many darkspawn are coming just as well as I can. Bethany's out of lyrium.”

 

“But Fenris--”

 

“I can't do that again,” Bethany admitted, eyes dropping. “I... I'm not sure how much more of that he could take. It felt like I was killing him.”

 

“If we don't stop arguing about it, they'll be right on top of us any second,” Thomas interrupted loudly. “We have to get out of here.”

 

“You know Kel would want us to go,” Matwog agreed, swallowing hard and looking down at the body of his friend. “He'd be hopping mad that we're taking this long to get running.”

 

“We can take them!” Feila said fiercely.

 

“There's too many of them. I'm not taking that chance.” Alistair caught and held her gaze, face made out of stone. “We're leaving. That's an order.”

 

For a moment it looked like Feila was going to contest his decision, but then she glanced around at the others and seemed to notice for the first time just how haggard they looked. She took in a shuddering breath and nodded. “Just... let me say goodbye.”

 

“No time.”

 

“Damn it, Alistair!” she exploded.

 

“Too late,” Fenris said sharply, drawing his sword.

 

The others drew together automatically, weapons leaping to their hands. Thomas hissed a curse. The shrieks of the darkspawn and the sound they made as they crashed through the undergrowth were uncomfortably close-- and coming from all sides.

 

“We can take 'em,” Feila repeated, but sounded a little less sure of herself.

 

“Not if there's another wave after this one,” Matwog argued, the hint of a whimper in the back of his throat. “And another one after that.”

 

“We'll take as many of them down as we can,” Alistair said grimly. Fenris backed up so he was back-to-back with the man, holding his large sword in a tight grip. Alistair spared him a brief smile before nodding to the other Wardens. “It's been an honor.”

 

Then the darkspawn burst into the clearing, screaming for blood.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

It was amazing what the Wardens were capable of when fueled by grief and rage.

 

The first few unfortunate darkspawn who arrived on the scene were slain in moments. Standing in a ring with Kel's body at their center, the Wardens took on all comers. Bethany clubbed darkspawn with her staff, and Feila picked off the further darkspawn with her bow until she ran out of arrows and was forced to draw her daggers.

 

Fenris felt odd fighting without the help of his lyrium boost. Within minutes his muscles began crying out against the abuse of swinging such a large sword without pause. To make matters worse, the wound he'd sustained from the darkspawn's blade in the first skirmish was beginning to sting something awful. Gritting his teeth, he ignored his own exhaustion. Alistair's face was streaming with sweat. It wasn't just the weight of the sword and shield he had to contend with, but his massive armor as well. Bethany began lagging first, unused to such desperate physical exertion.

 

And still there were more darkspawn.

 

When Bethany faltered, Fenris stepped closer, fighting an internal battle. Could she use him again? Danarius had never used his markings to much extent, had never had the need to. How much of himself could he offer before she used up what he had-- or killed him?

 

Not that he was being left with much choice. Matwog went reeling from a heavy blow to the head, and Fenris shouted to Bethany over the clamor, "Try it again! We need your magic!"

 

"No!" she retorted immediately, straightening up and cracking her staff against a genlock's shins. "It might kill you, Fenris!"

 

"Do it or we _all_ die!"

 

"Don't you dare!" Alistair barked.

 

Fenris risked throwing the other man a quick glare. "Stop being stup-"

 

"More on the way!" Vorin called in warning, indicating a disturbance at the fringes of the battle.

 

Fenris sliced off the head of a hurlock in a burst of furious desperation and reached out to seize Bethany's arm to get her attention. "Do it! Now!"

 

She hesitated, staring at him with agonized uncertainty.

 

"Oh, Maker," Feila gasped, and the shocked relief in her voice jerked their attention to the fight once more.

 

Backup had arrived. And it was on their side.

 

A small party of armed men was hacking their way through the darkspawn from the rear, taking the enemy completely off guard. The Wardens let out a ragged cheer, and for just a moment the fighting faltered as the darkspawn turned from one threat to the other, clearly uncertain what to do without a leader to guide them.

 

Alistair seized the moment, flourishing his sword in the air and gathering his friends with a rallying cry. "For the Grey Wardens!" With a shout the other Wardens surged after him, cutting a path through the darkspawn to reach their new allies.

 

There were nearly a dozen of the fighters, and it didn't take long for the darkspawn to falter and break. Too many of them were being slaughtered. The rest took to their heels, shrieking in hate and fear. Soon only the sounds of panting and creaking armor remained in the little clearing.

 

"They're Crows," Bethany whispered, pointing out the symbol emblazoned on the armor and shields of many of the fighters. Fenris glanced at her, confused, but just then someone laughed, stepping forward from the ranks of the rescue party. It was an elf in leather armor, handsome and covered in the blood of his kills. "Ah, so this explains things at last," the elf said in a rich Antivan accent. He slapped Alistair on the arm in a friendly greeting, grinning from ear to ear. "The last batch we ran into seemed to think we were Wardens. I should have known you were stirring up trouble, eh, Alistair?"

 

Alistair stared back at him in numb surprise. " _Zevran?_ "

 


	11. Crows

 

The Crows helped put together a litter and carry Kel's body through the woods, fanning themselves out as a rearguard for the exhausted little band of Wardens.

 

Fenris, having grown progressively weaker at a rapidity that alarmed the others, had been forced to rely on Alistair and Matwog for aid. He stumbled along with one arm over each man's shoulder, barely aware of just how out of it he really was. It started out as simple exhaustion hanging around his neck like a stone, and progressed into uncontrollable shivering, shortness of breath, and a dizziness that made everything seem unreal. Alistair's face grew more and more drawn with worry the more oddly Fenris behaved. Fenris had snapped at him the last three times he'd asked after the elf's welfare, however, so instead Alistair turned his attention to his old friend in an attempt to keep his anxiety from showing too badly.

 

"You're the ones that talking darkspawn mentioned. He said he'd been tracking us and ran into a group of dangerous fighters."

 

"Yes." Zevran gestured to his people with an almost careless flick of his hand. "We do not normally travel in groups like this, but when a few of ours were attacked, we decided we were safer in great numbers while we hunted down whatever fool had decided to mark the Crows for death. Out of two crews of fifty men, we are all that is left. We are heading back to Antiva to report. We are not Wardens; it is not our job to hunt darkspawn."

 

"I seem to remember you doing a pretty good job of it," Alistair pointed out with a fleeting smile.

 

Zevran laughed. "And I have not lost my touch, I assure you. But I cannot risk losing more Crows to the Taint." He stopped, eyes flicking sideways towards Fenris.

 

"He's just tired, that's all," Alistair said defensively. "By the way, I don't think I officially thanked you for showing up and saving our hides."

 

Zevran accepted the abrupt subject change without comment. He somehow managed to give a little mocking bow without breaking stride. "Yes, I am quite awesome, I know. Though I seem to recall a certain bastard prince pulling my chestnuts out of the fire once or twice."

 

Fenris was not so out of it that he couldn't hear the conversation. Listening to them was the only way he could halfway ignore the pain scraping just under his skin along the pathways of the lyrium marks. At Zevran's comment, he craned his eyes sideways towards Alistair. Kel had started to call Alistair a bastard once. Was that what he'd been about to say? Bastard _prince?_ Another man like Sebastian running from his responsibilities? Fenris wasn't sure how he felt about this secret. It hadn't bothered him knowing Sebastian was a prince. Thinking of Alistair potentially being someone more important than a simple Warden, however, made him feel inexplicably foolish and uptight. And just who was this strange elf, anyhow? He and Alistair sure seemed to know each other well. And there was the faintest lingering of eyes on body when Zevran looked over at the man, though Alistair was either ignoring it or-- more likely --completely unaware of it. Just what kind of history did the two of them have?

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

There was a small company of guards awaiting them at the gates of Prato. The ones in front stepped forward aggressively, got one look at the Crow emblem painted on the armor of the men, and backpedaled as if they'd come face to face with plague carriers. Fenris, barely conscious by this time, was unaware of anything going on around him. His marks were beginning to burn again something fierce, blocking him out to anything but the escalating pain.

 

Alistair glared at the guards, clenching and unclenching his teeth. "Are we not welcome in this town anymore?" he demanded pointedly.

 

A few guards cast guilty looks towards the funeral litter and glanced away. But while they shuffled uncomfortably away from the Crows, none of them looked ready to allow them through the gates.

 

“Step aside,” Zevran suggested, a note of coldness to his normally careless tone.

 

The Guards stirred, clearly torn. Distressed mutterings broke out in the ranks.

 

“We can't let Crows in here!”

 

“Fool, what idiot stands in the way of the Crows?”

 

“We outnumber them!”

 

“I don't like this.”

 

“MOVE!” someone barked from the rear, and the guards immediately parted and stood at attention to either side of the road. Captain Salva came striding up with the _sindaco_ himself right on his heels.

 

“I am superseding the magistrate's orders,” _sindaco_ Basilio said shortly, casting a disapproving look around at the guards. “The Wardens are our guests. They have put their lives on the line to defend us. You will show them the respect they deserve.” He hesitated, eyes falling on Zevran and his men. A grimace was there and gone again almost too quickly to see. “And what business have the Crows in Prato?” he asked neutrally.

 

“Passing through.” Zevran smiled fleetingly, like a fox in a henhouse. “We are not here on... business.”

 

Basilio nodded reluctantly. For the first time he noticed the litter, and his shoulders slumped. “My condolences, my friend,” he said, coming forward to place a hand briefly on Alistair's shoulder. He indicated Fenris's slumped form. “I shall have a medic sent.”

 

“Lyrium potions would be more helpful,” Bethany said, stepping forward boldly. She'd dropped the enchantment hiding her staff, and many Crows and guards, realizing what she was for the first time, took an instinctive step back.

 

The _sindaco_ , however, only nodded, and Salva sent one of his men for supplies.

 

The _sindaco_ glanced around at the exhausted fighters. “Many of you need patching up. I would suggest you all go to the infirmary in the Chantry. There is more room there, and more beds. And you may have your friend's body given the proper honors there.” He sighed wearily, rubbing at his temples. “Captain, tell my cousin I would like to see him in my offices.” Salva nodded, gathered two of his men to him with a glance, and marched off. Basilio offered Alistair a brief bow of thanks. “Some soldiers will show the way to the Chantry and speak with the Sisters there to make sure you are not disturbed. I will be by later to see how you are holding up, and you may tell me all that happened.”

 

Alistair nodded silently, then had to fumble to catch Fenris's abrupt dead weight as unconsciousness set upon the elf at last.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

The sounds of many voices in chorus brought Fenris slowly back to the waking world. He lay in an unfamiliar bed, gazing up at a high ceiling, listening in silence. The melodious singing, echoing around the building, gave away his surroundings without him having to ask. The music made him think fleetingly of Kirkwall and the many times he'd crept into the Chantry to pray in secret and hear the Chant of Light.

 

He turned his head slowly on his pillow, spotting another occupied bed nearby to his right. The curves under the sheet suggested a woman-- Feila or Bethany? Had the Wardens come here to seek sanctuary from the magistrate, or for healing? Everything after the Crows' unexpected rescue was a blur. He started to sit up, tensely waiting for his markings to protest the movement, but the pain was mercifully gone. That in itself told him that he'd been unconscious for at least a day. Sensing a presence to his left, he propped himself against the narrow headboard and turned his head carefully that way, still expecting a last-minute twinge from the lyrium.

 

Alistair was seated in a chair too small for him by Fenris's bedside, bent over at an uncomfortable angle. He'd leaned over to rest his head on his arms, folded across his knees, and fallen asleep that way. He was going to have a hell of a crick in his neck and back from that. The sight of the man in the small chair, obviously meant for a small woman and not a fully grown man, caused Fenris's mouth to quirk in a brief amused smile. He reached out to shake his friend awake, but a step in the doorway gave him pause.

 

The elf from the woods stood just inside the sickroom, finger to his lips. Frowning slightly, Fenris let his hand drop into his lap. The Crow checked to make sure the woman on the other bed was asleep and the other beds were unoccupied before picking up a spare chair and bringing it to Fenris's bedside across from Alistair. He straddled the chair backwards, crossing his arms over the chair's back, and offered Fenris a charming smile.

 

“We have not been properly introduced,” he said, voice pitched just low enough to keep from disturbing the slumbering swordsman. “I am Zevran Arainai. As you no doubt guessed, I am an old friend of Alistair's. We traveled together several years ago with Brosca.”

 

“The Hero of Ferelden?” Fenris cleared his throat, startled at how raspy his voice sounded. Zevran helpfully handed over a cup of water from the nightstand. “Why would an assassin travel with her?”

 

Zevran chuckled. “I was sent to kill her, actually. She defeated me and decided I'd be more valuable as an ally than a corpse. She is a very pragmatic woman.” He sent Alistair's dozing form a small grin. “Not everyone was happy with her decision at first. But I can be very charming.”

 

Fenris stared back at him, unsure how to respond. The man reminded him somehow of Isabela, casual and confident. And something about the way he held himself and the way he smiled seemed almost challenging, but not in a way that spoke of duels. He remembered the bold way Isabela had looked at him and shifted uncomfortably. Zevran's frank gaze was just like that.

 

“He is very taken with you, I think,” Zevran said, catching him off guard. The assassin's eyes lingered thoughtfully on Alistair's bowed head. “Having tried and failed spectacularly to get him to even notice my own charms, I think I am a little impressed.” He grinned again. “Perhaps even slightly jealous. I admit I have never gotten used to rejection.”

 

Fenris stared at him and opened his mouth. He shut it again helplessly a moment later, lost for words.

 

Zevran waved a hand carelessly. “Anyhow, it seems his fears were unfounded; he has been worried sick that you had caught this 'Taint'. I overheard his people speaking of a ritual. No doubt they were wondering if they would have to risk attempting making you a Warden. It seems you are clean, however. Your beautiful mage friend says it was your lovely tattoos that caused you such pain.” He reached out a finger to trace a line of silvery lyrium on Fenris's bare arm, but curled the finger back respectfully when Fenris twitched away. “They are quite fascinating. You make quite a pleasing sight.”

 

Fenris scowled reflexively, feeling his eartips beginning to burn at such blatant flirtation.

 

Alistair stirred, mumbled something incoherent, and lifted his head, squinting in exhaustion. It took him several moments to figure out where he was and who he was looking at. “Zev?” He yawned hugely. Fenris glanced between the two men, biting back an automatic grimace. _Zev?_ Really? Alistair's eyes, much more alert, landed on him in belated surprise. “Hey, you're awake!” He reached out and clasped Fenris's hand heartily. “You had us worried sick! You passed out right after we got back, and haven't moved since. That was... what, almost three days ago?” He winced suddenly, releasing Fenris to rub ruefully at his neck. “Oww I must've slept funny. How long was-- owowow --I out?”

 

Zevran rose gracefully to his feet, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “I shall leave you two to talk, yes?” He walked out, his eyes lingering appreciatively for a moment on the curves of the body in the next bed over. Fenris felt his muscles tense in offense, and he made a mental note to warn Bethany to steer clear of the smooth-talking elf.

 

Alistair sighed, kneading his neck with his fingers. “Well, you gave us a pretty bad scare. Turns out you collapsed from the strain of whatever Bethany did to you. We were sure you were at death's door. Bethany's pretty sure you were. Luckily she finally had the bright idea to get some lyrium in you. It seemed to... I don't know, jump-start you a bit? Your color returned and your tattoos brightened up a bit. She was afraid to give you too much, though.”

 

Fenris frowned, inspecting a curl of lyrium on his forearm. “I've tried lyrium potions once before. It didn't effect my markings for long.”

 

“No, no, not a potion. I mean raw lyrium.”

 

Fenris's head jerked up in surprise and alarm. If there was one thing he didn't want, it was _more_ lyrium in his body. Maker alone knew what the long-term effects of the markings would be as it was. But to put more on top of that... And besides that... “Lyrium is extremely expensive,” he finally said, voice strained. He shoved worried thoughts of a lyrium-addled future forcibly from his mind. “Where did she get it? I thought the dwarves and the Circle keep tight control over it.”

 

“The _sindaco_ actually had a very small amount that he was kind enough to donate. He kept it in a locket, of all things. His mother was a First Enchanter; it's why he isn't so bothered by Bethany.” Alistair smiled slightly. “And lucky for you, you're friends with a dwarf. From a noble family, no less.” At Fenris's blank stare, he dug in his breast pocket for a folded piece of parchment. It was odd, Fenris realized abruptly, seeing Alistair without his armor on. As a warrior on the road, it was safest for a Warden to live in his armor until bed time, and even that was a risk. He'd seen Alistair in plainclothes before, but the occasion was rare. He looked less imposing without the heavy platemail. Lankier.

 

Alistair started to hand over the letter, then pulled it back. “Someone's got to teach you how to read,” he said with an embarrassed smile.

 

Fenris nodded in silent agreement, and Alistair cleared his throat. “So the _sindaco_ got word back to this Sebastian friend of yours-- prince, priest, whatever he is –right after we first met with him. Just the other day a message arrived for you from a dwarf named Varric Tethras. He included some money-- apparently each of your friends from Kirkwall put some in –and a sort of... recommendation, I guess you'd call it. Basically he put in a good word for you, on behalf of his family, for Orzammar. He said if you still need to run, you might consider going there. It's a good place to disappear and there aren't any mages there.” He looked down at the letter helplessly, then folded it up again. “I'll have Bethany read it to you later. It's personal, and you both know him.”

 

Fenris barely heard. He was staring at the paper in Alistair's hands as if someone had presented him with Andraste's ashes. Hearing from Sebastian had been shocking enough. But this... His mind felt blank with shock, and his throat was suspiciously tight. He glanced away, fixing his eyes on a statue of Andraste, setting his face into unreadable lines. He'd gotten along with Varric, but this was...

 

“We buried Kel while you were unconscious,” Alistair said quietly, eyes dropping. “I'll show you where once you're feeling better.”

 


	12. Sanctuary

“Thank the Maker you're all right,” Bethany said fervently, clutching Fenris's hand in a deathgrip. She seemed impervious to his subtle attempts to shake free. “I'm so sorry, Fenris. Will you ever forgive me? I can't believe I did that, knowing how you feel about it.”

 

“It was my idea,” Fenris reminded her once more, tugging on his hand and trying not to make it obvious. “We'd be dead if you hadn't.”

 

“You mean more of us would be dead,” Matwog corrected quietly. Fenris glanced from him to Alistair helplessly. Alistair gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. Matwog was not taking Kel's death well. From what little Alistair had told him of the past few days, Matwog had been in a grief-fueled rage that he was just now coming out of. The dark depression he was in was a startling difference from his usual carefree manner.

 

“Everyone handles death in their own way,” Alistair had pointed out when warning Fenris to tread lightly around the subject of Kel. “And Kel always got along well with the brothers. Matwog's just not handling it as well as Thomas. He just needs time.”

 

They were all gathered in the sick bay for lunch, eager to check on Fenris and fill him in on their current circumstances. Fenris sat on the edge of his bed, slowly eating a bowl of plain but hearty soup. The others had dragged chairs and benches close by and were seated in a close circle. Even Vorin was present.

 

“You were the worst off,” Feila said. She seemed quietly sad, but was recovering from her grief quicker than Matwog. She offered Fenris a wan smile. “The rest of us got off pretty light: just a slight concussion for Vorin, and one of Zevran's men had a busted arm.” Her eyes flickered towards the open doorway. “No one's saying it out loud, but we're here for more than just recovery.”

 

“Sanctuary,” Fenris guessed, frowning. He finally succeeded in rescuing his hand from Bethany's nervous grip. “From the magistrate?”

 

“From Prato,” Vorin grumbled into his bread.

 

Fenris stared first at him, then at Alistair in disbelief. “We just risked our necks to save them from darkspawn. What's their problem with us?”

 

“Would you like a list?” Alistair waved his spoon in the air dramatically. “First off, some people are really nervous that there's an apostate here, even if she is a Grey Warden. The closest Circle is a hundred miles away; these people aren't used to having mages around. It's probably only a matter of time before an official complaint is sent to the Circle. I wouldn't be surprised if a few Templars were to show up within the next few days. That's not going to be a fun conversation.” He threw Bethany a sympathetic look and moved on. “The _sindaco_ had a little 'chat' with his cousin about how naughty he's been lately, but if anything it only made the magistrate angrier. And there's no telling how many of the Guard are on his private payroll. Also, some townspeople are actually _blaming_ us for the darkspawn. And someone-- one of Zev's men, probably –let slip that there was a talking darkspawn in the area. The people here are saying we attracted the darkspawns' attention. Besides all that, showing up at the town gates with a squad of Crows didn't make us very popular.”

 

“I know they're assassins, but I thought the Crows were actually very powerful politically in Antiva,” Bethany said softly, brow creased with worry.

 

Feila nodded. “They are, but this is a small town just barely on the border. These people don't want much to do with the political backstabbing that goes on in the major cities, and the Crows make them understandably nervous. Such a place hasn't ever been important enough to warrant the Crows' attention according to Zevran. Like mages, assassins are an unwanted guest here.”

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

“Alistair.” Fenris stopped the other man as everyone filed out of the room at Bethany's insistence. She'd made some comment about how pale the elf had looked, and didn't want him to get overwhelmed. _Worse than a mother,_ Fenris thought with fleeting exasperation. He glanced towards the door to reassure himself the others had left. Alistair stood by his bed, curious, and Fenris fixed him with a stern gaze. “I'm well enough to travel. It's not like I have a broken leg or a debilitating illness. Don't tailor your plans around whether you think I can or can't pick up my sword without dropping it. I'm ready to leave Prato or return to the woods whenever the rest of the squad is ready.”

 

“I know.” Alistair lowered himself back into his chair, scratching at his stubble anxiously. “I know. You're, ah, a lot tougher than you look. I've figured that much out for myself. Don't worry, it's not your frail elf body that's keeping us from going anywhere.” He ducked Fenris's irritated swipe with a playful grin. “We'd all prefer that you get some rest today, but I know you can bounce back from this. It's the people here that worry me. Bethany and Thomas ventured outside the other day to drop by the blacksmith's for some repairs, and started getting nasty looks from townfolks. Then a couple guards started harassing them pretty bad. If a few of Zevran's men hadn't shown up, things could have gotten out of control. As it was, they all ended up beating a hasty retreat back here.”

 

Fenris's frown deepened. It was going to be especially risky for Bethany to remain in Prato for long, so long as the townspeople had their collective heads up their asses. As an apostate she only made them more nervous, and gave them a specific target. Alistair seemed to have already come to the same conclusion; he nodded at the look on his friend's face. “Beth's not allowed to step so much as a pinky toe outside if she can help it. When we do leave here, she's not going anywhere alone until Prato is a speck on the horizon. She can take care of herself, but she's not a violent person by nature, and...” He shook his head. “I'm just not taking any chances.” He lifted a hand to point accusingly at Fenris. “ _You_ need to watch your back, too. You are right at the top of the magistrate's shit list, I'm sure. Watch your back. We should be safe here, but as soon as we step out those doors, we're fair game.”

 

Fenris waved aside his concerns impatiently. “What's your plan, anyway? Are we still going to try to help these idiots? Do you really plan on going back into the woods and trying to find the source of these darkspawn?”

 

“Of course.” Alistair sounded genuinely surprised by the question. “We're Grey Wardens. This is what we _do_.”

 

“Has anyone ever told you you've got a bit of a nobility complex?” Fenris grumbled, resigned despite himself. Had he really expected any other answer?

 

Alistair laughed, eyes shying away. “Look, the plan is to get in there and wipe out any 'spawn in the area. Zev's already offered to help with that. Then we're continuing on to the capital.”

 

'Zev'. Good grief. It rankled him, hearing Alistair use a stupid nickname. It was one thing to have an affectionate name like that for a sister figure, like “Beth”. But it just seemed odd to use one for a flirtatious man. It must have been Zevran's idea.

 

Or perhaps Alistair had not been as blind to the assassin's advances as first assumed.

 

_Not that it's any of your damned business,_ he reminded himself belatedly, eartips growing hot with annoyed embarrassment. He pushed his blanket away and swung his feet over the side of his bed, his back to Alistair to hide his sudden mood change. “I need to walk around. I'm tired of lying here.”

 

“Wait, you're still--”

 

Fenris wobbled unsteadily, completely unprepared for the lingering lassitude in his limbs. Alistair was on his feet and around the bed in a heartbeat, hand catching him by the elbow to steady him.

 

“You're worn out from what Beth did,” the Warden chided. “Plus you've been prone for days. Give yourself a minute to find your balance again.”

 

Fenris started to jerk away out of reflex, but aborted the attempt, forcing himself to steady himself against the man's strong grip. Once the brief wave of dizziness was gone, he took a few stubborn steps. He felt a little weak, but it was nothing debilitating. A walk would do him a world of good. Still, even such mild weakness irked him.

 

As soon as he had his balance, Alistair released him. “Sorry. I know you don't, ah, like to be touched.”

 

Fenris glanced at him, the words out before he could stop them, grudging though they were. “I don't mind.”

 

He shut his mouth with a click of teeth, but there was no time for either of them to process the statement; Zevran appeared in the doorway just then, grinning cheerily. “Ah, you're up. Good, good! I was hoping to speak with you, my tattooed friend.”

 

_We are not friends. We just met,_ Fenris thought irritably, but only said, “About what?”

 

“Come, let us walk. You look like you are going to go stir crazy in here anyway.” Flashing a parting smile at Alistair and ignoring the way Fenris stiffened in affront, he linked his arm through the other elf's and led him out of the sick bay.

 

“Let go,” Fenris snapped, trying to pull his arm free.

 

Zevran laughed at him, steering him down a narrow hallway. “Now now. We can't have you tripping over your own feet. Besides, I think I heard you say you don't mind.”

 

“That was--” _Shut up_ _ **right now**_ _._ He shut his mouth, but Zevran's teasing smile was already in place.

 

“Only with certain naïve Wardens, yes?” The Crow chuckled. “Relax. How are you ever going to let anyone touch you if you react with such hostility to a helping hand, hmm?”

 

Fenris remained silent. Zevran was too hard to decipher. Was the man being honestly helpful-- even insightful –or craftily weaving an excuse to be close? He certainly seemed like the touchy-feely kind. Finally he decided to stop fighting the firm hold, even if it did make his skin tight and his hair stand on end. It was one thing to let someone he knew and trusted get this close. Zevran was still a stranger, and worse, a flirty male. He'd had his fill of those in his lifetime.

 

_This is not Tevinter,_ he told himself firmly. Zevran had a point, even if his motives might be less than noble. “Where are we going?” he demanded.

 

“So grumpy. There is something I wish to discuss in private, that is all.”

 

“If the next words out of your mouth have anything do with a closet--”

 

Zevran placed his free hand to his chest in mock affront. “My friend, I seduce. I have no need to take. Give me _some_ credit.” His face turned solemn for an instant as he eyed the other elf sideways. “It saddens me that you jump to such conclusions so quickly. Especially with your aversion to touch.”

 

Fenris gave his arm another yank. “Let go.”

 

Zevran tsked and obeyed, though he continued to walk beside him. “If you do not learn to trust, you are not going to be able to let someone close when you want them to be. And that is a sad fate for anyone.”

 

“What are you, my appointed therapist? I don't have time for this.”

 

“Straight to the point, then.” Zevran stopped. They'd reached the main chapel. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching a pair of Sisters light the candles at the feet of a grand statue of Andraste. “Your pretty mage friend will not be safe here much longer,” he murmured, indicating a woman overseeing the Sisters. “A Mother has sent word to the Templars. You have only a few days before they arrive to take her away. She will be unable to defend herself; Templars are trained to subdue mages. You must convince Alistair to leave this place. Forget the darkspawn. My men and I can do a final sweep of the woods. This place is no longer safe for any of you.”

 

Fenris stiffened, glaring at the Mother's back. “She's a Grey Warden,” he argued hotly. “Doesn't the Circle make allowances for that?”

 

“Grudgingly, yes. But your friend, from what I understand, was never part of the Circle to begin with. She is an apostate, no? That is unforgivable in their eyes. As far as they're concerned, the Wardens have no right to harbor her. I heard of the problems they had with the last troublesome mage they took in-- I believe you're acquainted.”

 

“Anders.” The name tasted like acid on his tongue.

 

“Yes. He ran away from the Circle. The only reason the Wardens were allowed to keep him was because both the Queen and the Hero of Ferelden vouched for him. From what I understand, they still would have snatched him back if given the chance, however. He was barely one step ahead of being made Tranquil. And that's because he ran away. This woman, however, was never a part of their Circle. They will take her away the second they get the chance. Especially with Alistair so far away from Warden backup.”

 

“Why are you telling me this? Tell Alistair.”

 

“I have mentioned it. But he is reluctant-- as is your pretty friend –to leave too quickly. Duty holds them here There are still darkspawn for them to kill, and that is something Wardens are very stubborn about. And there is you.”

 

“Me?”

 

“They want to make sure you are at full health. Guilt holds her here as much as duty. I am not sure what occurred to put you in that bed, but the mage seems to think it's her fault.”

 

Fenris looked away, cursing internally. “And you think I can knock some sense into them? Why? You've known Alistair longer. And Bethany will listen to him.”

 

“Alistair will not listen to me. He will, however, listen to you. Tell him you are ready to go. Tell him I will deal with the darkspawn. If you must, threaten to leave on your own.”

 

“How is that supposed to help?”

 

“He will not let you go. Not alone. He will follow you. That will get the Wardens and your mage safely away from here.”

 

Fenris could feel his ears heating up again. His protest died in his throat. The last few times he'd offered to leave, he'd been met with heavy resistance-- especially from Bethany and Alistair. As underhanded as it was, Zevran was probably right. If he were to threaten to go on ahead-- or if he were to just start walking.....

 

Would Alistair go after him?

 

He found himself pacing back and forth in sudden restlessness, reaching up unconsciously to rub at his burning ears. The thought made him unreasonably uptight.

 

“I can't,” he finally said. “The Wardens swore an oath to kill darkspawn and to protect people from them. I won't force him-- _them_ \--to choose between my companionship and their duty.”

 

Zevran rolled his eyes, smiling slightly. “I see. How infuriatingly stubborn. Then I suggest you prove you're ready to travel. At least that way perhaps you will all be able to deal with the darkspawn sooner rather than later, and be gone before the Templars arrive. But remember that they are not your only threat. The longer you stay here, the more rowdy the people here will get.”

 

“I know that.” He looked around. “Where's Bethany?”

 

Zevran pointed to a few people in the back pews. “She is there. Praying, I suspect. Why?”

 

“Because I tire of you calling her 'pretty mage', and I suddenly don't think I want you within five feet of her.”

 

Zevran laughed heartily, giving a playful wave as Fenris made his way towards her. “I can be very charming when I wish to be, my tattooed friend. She may not want you in the way.”

 

Fenris shot him a dirty look and didn't bother with a response.


	13. Slippery When Wet

After Zevran's warning, Fenris made it a point to stay out of bed as much as possible the rest of that day and the next. He even slipped out to the cemetery whenever he thought he could get away with it, swinging his sword at invisible enemies and reassuring himself that his strength was quickly returning. Matwog caught him at it on the second evening and silently joined in for a brief but fierce sparring match. The man's eyes glowed with intensity. He was more than ready to get some payback, and was just as eager as Fenris to get back to the woods.

 

Alistair noted the restlessness of his men and decided they would return to wreak vengeance the following morning. He was not interested in running away. He was determined to finish the job they'd started. With Zevran's Crows bolstering their numbers, he was confident they had a fair chance of driving the darkspawn out of the area and hopefully finding whatever path to the Deep Roads they were using. Both groups sat up that night grimly sharpening blades and waxing bowstrings, checking their medical supplies and mentally preparing themselves for the fight. If they did find the Deep Roads path, the fight was going to be doubly dangerous

 

Reminded sharply of their own mortality by Kel's death, the Wardens spent the night as if it was their last, so much as their confinement to the Chantry would allow. Feila and Zevran slipped away shortly after dinner. Matwog and Thomas sat at the feet of the great Andraste statue and passed a bottle of rum back and forth while they quietly spoke of their childhood and reminisced on the funniest memories of Kel they had. They ignored the disapproving stares of the two Sisters on night vigil. Bethany prayed for a great while, then found a quiet corner to pen a long letter to her sister. Fenris didn't dare ask what she said in it.

 

Zevran had forbidden the Crows from visiting the brothel or the pub to avoid the risk of an incident with the nervous townspeople, so instead they gathered in the room allotted to them, singing battle songs and telling raunchy stories.

 

Fenris sat in a pew for a long time, unsure what to do with himself. Every time he tried to settle his mind on something more peaceful, his thoughts inevitably sank to dark places. Memories of Danarius and his time in Kirkwall rose again and again like fresh corpses in a pond. What made it harder was that not every memory of Kirkwall was all bad. The dark spots-- dealing with Anders and Hawke, and constantly waiting for Merrill to do something stupid with her blood magic –were interspersed with nights spent at the Hanged Man playing cards with Isabela and Varric. Speaking with Sebastian about faith. The occasional affectionate headbutt from Hawke's mabari. The people they'd helped when doing odd jobs in the city. Living in his very own mansion.

 

He got to his feet, nearly sick with the constant bombardment of pain and temporary contentment these memories brought him. He looked around the quiet chapel. Where was Alistair? The man had been unusually reserved during dinner, and had disappeared at some point without anyone noticing. What was he doing on what might be their last night? He'd assumed such an outgoing man would instinctively seek the company of others, but he was pretty sure he hadn't seen him go with the Crows. And the idea of him trying to find comfort between the sheets as Zevran and Feila preferred was highly unlikely. Not that there were any women in the band of Crows anyhow. Buckling on his sword, Fenris left the chapel and returned to the room given to the Wardens. The sounds coming from within made him beat a hasty retreat. That was where Feila had gone. He began checking in every room, not sure what he was going to say if he found the man. If he was honest with himself, it worried him a bit that Alistair had chosen to exclude himself from the others' company tonight. Even if he was no good at comforting platitudes, however, Fenris could at least sit with the man and offer silent moral support or something.

 

As he passed the washroom he heard a splash of water, and checked the door for the tell-tale white scarf the Sisters tied around the handle to indicate that men were not permitted. No sash. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, glancing around. Alistair was seated on one of the washing benches at the far end of the narrow room, a towel around his waist. He was scrubbing at his hair with a rough bar of soap.

 

Fenris approached on silent feet, avoiding the water trickling towards the drains. He hesitated a few feet away, studying the other man.

 

He'd forgotten about the scars he'd caught a glimpse of when they'd all bathed in the river. Alistair still hadn't noticed his approach yet, and Fenris found his eyes tracking the man's muscled back, picking out the puckered flesh and dark lines that patterned his shoulders and back. Wounds from swords, arrows, and claws. Marks of a man who'd been fighting most of his life.

 

He reached out to tap the man's shoulder, but the traitorous limb instead moved lower, fingertips lightly touching a jagged scar on the man's spine. The wound must have been near-fatal, so close to his spinal cord. Alistair was lucky to be ali--

 

Alistair jumped hard at the touch in alarm, and Fenris jerked back reflexively. His heel skidded in a puddle of soapy water and he fell hard on his ass. " _Venhedis_ _!_ " he spat, tailbone throbbing.

 

Alistair was on his feet and turned around in an instant. He stared down at Fenris in surprise. "Maker, Fenris, you startled me!" He reached behind himself tentatively to touch where Fenris's fingers had been, face flushing slightly. As Fenris continued to curse quietly, a smile quirked at his mouth. He offered the elf a hand, pulling him to his feet. "What's up? Did you need to take a bath-- _gahhh!_ " The soap had slid down from his hair into his face, and he rubbed frantically at his stinging eyes.

 

"Lower your hands." Fenris picked up a nearby pail of rinsing water and splashed it directly into the man's face.

 

"FENRIS!" Alistair sputtered, shaking his head like a dog.

 

Fenris couldn't quite hold back a smirk. "Just trying to help."

 

"Yeah, sure." That little-boy smile of his was already spreading across Alistair's face as he wiped the last of the water from his eyes. He took the pail away and went to refill it from the stone well in the center of the room. Fenris watched him go, a small corner of his mind suddenly focusing on the way the muscles in the man's back and legs shifted as he moved. He tore his eyes away, embarrassed. What the hell was the matter with him?

 

Alistair took advantage of his averted eyes and snuck up with a gleeful grin, holding the bucket over his head. Fenris sensed his approach and glanced up just in time. "Hey!" He reached out quickly, seizing the man's wrists. A struggle broke out as they wrestled for control of the pail. "What do you think you're doing?"

 

"Payback, you little toad! Let's see how you like it. Besides, I thought you _liked_ baths!"

 

"Not while fully clothed!" Fenris protested, but Alistair had already tipped the bucket and sent a sheet of freezing water over the elf. Fenris gasped loudly, and Alistair burst into laughter.

 

"You look like a drowned cat!"

 

Fenris offered a death glare, hands held out to the side as he dripped all over the floor. "You want to be immature? Fine." He turned and snatched a towel from a hook on the wall, letting its end dip into a puddle before swiftly spinning it into a tight cord, holding both ends in each hand.

 

It was apparently a trick Alistair had seen before. He leapt back, trying to use the pail as a shield. "Wait wait, no, don't, mercy!"

 

Fenris snapped at the man's bare legs with the improvised whip, smirking at the pained yelp it caused.

 

"You- you-" Alistair grabbed at the towel, but Fenris quickly held it out of reach. "You're a little brat, you know that?"

 

"You started it," Fenris retorted, no longer caring that he was acting just as childish as the Warden.

 

Alistair ran for the well again with his bucket.

 

"Hey!" Fenris went after him, but his bare foot found another slick patch on the stone floor, and he sailed forward instead, arms pinwheeling in an undignified manner. He slammed into the other man's back and sent them both crashing painfully to the floor.

 

They lay where they were for a few heartbeats, a tangled damp mess of limbs. The breath had been knocked from them both, and Alistair had taken the brunt of the fall. He uttered a muffled grunt of pain, and Fenris, wincing from where he'd banged his elbow on the floor, carefully levered himself off of the other man a bit. His foot had gotten trapped under the other man's shin and his knee was pinning the towel to the floor. He paused, trying to figure out how to get up without using Alistair as a springboard and hurting him worse.

 

Abruptly Alistair gave a lithe twist so he was on his back, grabbed Fenris by the shoulder, and used his new leverage to flip them over. "Oof!" Fenris gasped, the air nearly driven from his lungs once more as his back met the floor hard. Alistair hovered over him, smirking. "I never knew you had a playful streak in you, elf," he taunted.

 

Fenris regained his breath and started to scowl. Abruptly he grinned unpleasantly. "You seem to be missing something, Warden." He groped around on the ground until he found what he was looking for. He held the towel up, wagging it in Alistair's face like a flag. Alistair stared at it blankly, then looked down the length of their bodies briefly to confirm his fears. His face immediately turned scarlet.

 

Fenris started laughing. It felt like something he hadn't done in far too long, and the sound startled both of them. The air froze in his lungs an instant later when a mouth, hesitant and feather-light, brushed against his own. He stared wide-eyed into the face inches away, feeling heat flood his own face. The look on Alistair's face was difficult to categorize. Embarrassed, nervous, and something else that made Fenris's heart bang harder than it already was. His mouth touched Fenris's again, still too tentative and faint to be a real kiss-- a test, a question. Fenris's first instinctive impulse was to shove the man off as hard as he could, to bolt from the room like a startled deer. He reached up, but his hands hovered in the air, not quite touching Alistair's bare shoulders. His own sudden indecision-- to stay or flee --gave him a frightful jolt, and if Alistair had made one more move, he likely would have found himself thrown halfway across the room. But he caught the flicker of near-panic in Fenris's eyes and froze.

 

"I'm-- sorry," he mumbled, still red. "I don't know what-- I mean--" He hesitated.

 

A small voice in Fenris's mind, usually buried by years and years of distrust and anger, bullied its way to the forefront of his consciousness. _Of all the people in Thedas to do this, you finally find one you want to give permission to, and you're thinking of breaking his arm in three places. WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU?_

 

He let his hands fall back onto the floor like dead weights and swallowed hard. "You have terrible timing, Warden," he heard himself say, voice hoarse.

 

Alistair blinked, looking both hopeful and confused. "Trust me, I didn't plan it. But, ah... we might be dead tomorrow."

 

"I'm not Zevran," Fenris pointed out, a little harsher than he'd meant to.

 

"I know that!" Alistair stopped, lowering his head slightly. "I just, ah..." he swallowed hard. "I don't want to die without... having had the courage to kiss you."

 

Fenris could come up with no response to that. He lay still as stone, his expression frozen in one of shock. A kiss? That's all the man wanted? The big hopeless mabari.

 

_Where the hell has this man been the last few years of my life?_ he wondered dryly. He shoved the man firmly, and Alistair rocked back onto his knees, grabbing the towel and covering himself hastily. His eyes were still lowered in humiliation. Fenris sat up carefully, still sore from the fall, and reached out to wrap his fingers around the back of the man's neck. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Alistair's without giving himself time to think better of it.

 

It was a lingering kiss, hesitant on both sides. Soft and slow, something that had been missing from Fenris's life for far too long. When he pulled back, Alistair looked dazed.

 

"Don't die tomorrow," Fenris ordered. His eartips felt like they were on fire. He climbed to his feet and hurried from the room.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

There was strength in numbers, Fenris reflected the following morning. In one large clump of heavily armed fighters, the Wardens and Crows passed through the town without incident. Though the Guard easily outnumbered them, their loyalties were clearly still divided between magistrate and _sindaco_. While some of the guards gave the group the evil eye, none were foolish enough to get in their way. Or perhaps they were simply willing to put aside suspicion and animosity for the greater good. It was a darkspawn hunting party, one that might end up decimated, and everyone knew it.

 

Captain Salva himself awaited them at the gates with a small company of his loyal guards. "I wish I could go with you," he said, clasping Alistair's arm in a brief farewell. "But if you fail, I need to be able to defend these walls, and things are too delicate politically right now. I take it you will not be returning?"

 

Alistair shook his head. "After we've finished, we'll be heading to the capital. Would our wounded be safe here if we were to send them back?"

 

"I will make sure of it. If you can signal us somehow that you've succeeded, I can send some men out to retrieve those unable to walk."

 

"I can do that," Bethany said quietly. "Look for green smoke."

 

Salva looked at her. "It's best this way. For you, at least, my lady. There is an outpost only a few miles from here where Templars are stationed close to this time of year. If they are there, word has likely already reached them about you." He scowled. "They refused to help us with our darkspawn problem without reinforcements last year, so I will do what I can to point them in the wrong direction."

 

"Thank you for everything," Alistair said with a small smile.

 

"Where will you look?"

 

"When we first spoke, you mentioned a coal mine you closed off."

 

"Yes." The Guard Captain rubbed at his jaw thoughtfully. "We were afraid it might connect to a Deep Roads passage. We haven't been back that way since. Too risky. You think they may have reopened it?"

 

"It's worth a shot. Those darkspawn we encountered came from _somewhere_. It's all we have to go off of right now." Alistair turned to Zevran. "Ready?"

 

Zevran flashed him a cocky smile. "As always, my friend. Just like old times, eh?"

 

"Except with no dwarven Hero to pull our butts out of the fire this time." Alistair lifted his hand to signal the others to move out.

 

Nearby citizens gave a ragged cheer as the warriors exited through the gate. Some, perhaps, were just relieved to see the unwanted Crows and apostate leave. Others saw their saviors for what they were. The magistrate's distinct lack of an appearance seemed to give them just enough courage to show minimal support. Fenris ignored them all, burying his resentment.

 

He didn't look back, even when the gates slammed shut behind him. It was just one more place he was being forced to flee from.

 

 


	14. Protective Instincts

Alistair led the group, since he was the only one who'd been given detailed directions. Zevran walked with him, and they reminisced about “the good old days”. The good old days had an alarming amount of deaths in them, and the stories sounded as depressing as they were occasionally humorous, so Fenris dropped back to try and talk some sense into Bethany.

 

“I don't think you should go into the mines with us,” he said firmly.

 

She frowned at him. “In case you hadn't noticed, I'm the only mage here. You guys need me. And I brought plenty of lyrium potions this time.”

 

“You realize we're probably going to our deaths, right?”

 

She sighed, reaching out to touch his arm briefly in comfort. “Fenris, I'm not saying I want to die, but I'm a Grey Warden. It kind of comes with the territory. One of the first things we're taught is to expect death to come suddenly and violently. And frankly, it's better than the alternative. I don't really plan on letting the taint get so bad that I end up wandering the Deep Roads as some twisted poisoned thing, hunting darkspawn until I keel over. Every Warden hopes to go down fighting.”

 

“So you'd die for a town of fools who can't stand the sight of you?” he demanded.

 

“I'm not doing this for them specifically. It's my job to kill darkspawn. Besides, who knows who else we could be saving by wiping these ones out? We might be preventing them from rising up and spreading further into Antiva. You heard what that darkspawn said. The deranged plans he had. We have to make sure he didn't leave anyone behind who might try to continue on with it.”

 

Fenris scowled, unable to come up with a retort.

 

“Are you trying to talk me out of this because I'm a woman, or because I'm a mage?” Bethany asked patiently.

 

“That's not it, and you know it,” he grumbled, glaring straight ahead.

 

She ducked under a low tangle of ivy, a fond smile playing at her lips. “I'll be sticking close to you, if it makes you feel better. Knowing your fighting style, you're going to need a healer at some point during this battle.”

 

He snorted loudly, but didn't pull away when she twined her arm affectionately through his.

 

They reached the mines quicker than Fenris expected. After two hours of trudging through the woods, tense and ready for an attack that never came, Alistair called a halt.

 

"Take a quick break, everyone," he called. "Check your weapons and armor and get some food in you. There's no telling how long we'll be down there or what we'll find."

 

Everyone unshouldered their rucksacks and weapons, and a grim hush hung over the group as Alistair's advice was followed. A few of the Crows attempted light hearted chatter, but it died down quickly. None could help but throw the occasional look of dread towards the mine's entrance.

 

Fenris didn't think he could stomach food at the moment, so he threaded his way through the men seated on the ground and joined Alistair, who was standing near the mine, hands roving over the clasps of his armor as he checked to make sure everything was tight, fingers so accustomed to the task that he didn't even need to watch what he was doing. Fenris followed his gaze, uncorking his water bag for a quick nervous drink.

 

The mine's entrance had been sealed up with planks of wood and a mound of dirt and rubble. Just getting it out of the way was going to be a job in and of itself. "The darkspawn clearly aren't getting out this way. Are you hoping to flank them?"

 

"That's the plan. And if we're lucky we'll be able to find where they're getting out and maybe block that as well." Alistair finished with his armor and accepted the canteen when Fenris offered it. He took a few sips, then spat some of the water into his hand to rub against the back of his neck. He was already sweating heavily from the long trek in such heavy armor. He handed the canteen back, but didn't let go until Fenris met his eyes. "Are you absolutely sure you want to do this? There's no guarantee you'll live through it. Or make it out without getting tainted."

 

Fenris tugged the canteen away and corked it with a slight shrug. "Seems as good a way to die as any. What else am I going to do? Go back on the run again?"

 

"You could settle down somewhere. Take a ship, go to another country where no one cares about your past or who might or might not put a price on your head."

 

Fenris offered him a mild glare. "I may not be a Warden, but I can fight as well as any of you. I'm not going to slow you down. Stop trying to get rid of me."

 

"That's not what I mean, and you know it," Alistair said softly, unknowingly echoing the elf's earlier words. "Is it really so hard to believe that I want you to be safe?"

 

Fenris's eyes flickered towards Bethany, then away again. "This is my choice. You watch my back and I'll watch yours."

 

Alistair smiled wanly. He started to reach out as if to touch him, then forced his hand back by his side. Fenris couldn't help but wonder if it was because of their audience or because Alistair wasn't sure if the touch would be appreciated.

 

"I wish you'd wear more armor," Alistair fretted. "You're far too exposed to risk fighting darkspawn."

 

Fenris rolled his eyes. "Heavy armor would only slow me down. Anyway, if I'm killed, it won't matter if I get tainted or not."

 

Alistair made a distressed sound.

 

"Bethany's not exactly covered in chainmail either, you know."

 

"She'll be in the middle, surrounded by men in armor. And she has magic." Alistair hesitated, then reached under the collar of his shirt and tugged at a thin chain, pulling it over his head. He offered it almost timidly. "Can you at least wear this?"

 

Fenris stared at the simple locket.

 

"It was my mother's," Alistair explained, almost babbling, looking at the swaying jewelry rather than at Fenris. "It's all I have left of her. Brosca got it back for me, and I've been wearing it ever since. It's sort of become my good luck charm. I'd just feel better if you held onto it."

 

Fenris swallowed hard. "I can't accept that."

 

"I'm not asking you to marry me," Alistair teased with a brief smile. "Give it back to me after we're done here. Please."

 

Fenris glanced from him to the necklace, then snatched it away, grumbling as he put it on. He slipped the locket under his breastplate, out of sight. "Happy now?" he muttered, hating the heat he could feel suffusing his neck and face.

 

Zevran strolled over just then, spinning his daggers expertly in his hands, looking a bit too eager for battle in Fenris's opinion. "No time to waste, Alistair," he said boldly. "Let us move these rocks and show these darkspawn they messed with the wrong men, eh?"

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

It took over an hour of backbreaking work to shift all the debris away from the cave entrance, after which everyone needed another break. Alistair only let them rest ten minutes before he had everyone back on their feet again. The Wardens took point, torches held high. Bethany remained safely in the middle with the Crow's archers, while Zevran watched the rear with the rest of his men.

 

They had to make their way around overturned carts and scattered piles of coal, and it wasn't long before they came upon the bodies far enough in that the villagers hadn't had the nerve to retrieve.

 

Bethany paused to murmur a small prayer for the departed, then gagged involuntarily. The further they went, the worse the smell of rotting bodies and darkspawn got in the enclosed space. Everyone pulled out scraps of cloth and bandannas and tied them loosely around their mouths and noses to keep out the worst of the stench.

 

Fenris was accustomed to the dark; in his youth as a slave he'd spent a lot of time in a room that basically amounted to a closet, and he'd done a lot of his flight to freedom at night. Being an elf helped, he reflected as he steadied Thomas when the man stumbled for the second time. Human night vision was not quite up to par.

 

They'd only been advancing through the narrow tunnels a half hour when Feila got everyone's attention with a quiet hiss. She held up her torch, and everyone watched as the flames flickered fitfully towards the left.

 

"Another tunnel? Maybe one of their exits?" she murmured.

 

Zevran quickly selected a handful of his men and sent him in that direction. "If the coast is clear, try to block it," he said, all seriousness for once. "We'll wait here a few moments; if there are darkspawn, come for backup."

 

The group peeled away and slunk off, and the others took the unexpected reprieve to gulp a little water and calm themselves. A minute later a quiet whistle had Zevran waving Alistair forward. "All clear. They will catch up to us later, if they can."

 

Alistair nodded silently, and they set off once more.

 

It was easy to lose track of time underground, and it was only his shortness of breath and tired feet that suggested to Fenris that they'd been moving for some length of time. He glanced back at Bethany. She was lagging slightly, face grim but forehead shining with sweat. Perhaps he should request a break.

 

Alistair halted abruptly, holding up a hand. Everyone froze. All of the Wardens were suddenly alert, eyes straining to pierce the darkness. Fenris reached over his shoulder, fingers wrapping tight around the hilt of his new sword. The onyx stone set there dug reassuringly into his palm. "You sense them?" he breathed.

 

Alistair nodded tensely, hand straying towards the sword at his hip. "A lot of them. Close." He glanced at Fenris for a long moment. It was impossible to make out his exact expression in the flickering light of the torches, but his hesitation betrayed his anxiety.

 

"Fenris, look... if we don't get out of this..."

 

Fenris stepped just close enough to jostle the taller man with his shoulder, offering a brief but rare smile. "Don't get sappy on me now, Warden. Tell me later."

 

"But--"

 

"They're coming," Feila said shortly, yanking her daggers out. There was a loud staccato hiss of steel as everyone else quickly drew their weapons. Faintly the screech of the approaching darkspawn reached them, echoing off the walls and through unseen tunnels. The Wardens instinctively clumped together, ready to watch each other's backs. The Crows, more accustomed to working as solo assassins, spread out to give each other room.

 

"Oh, Maker." Bethany's voice had a quaver to it. Fenris was suddenly glad he couldn't sense what she could. "There's so many."

 

Fenris gripped his sword tight in both hands, letting the tip lower to touch the ground. His right shoulder was pressed to Alistair's left; the other man had already lifted his shield to partially protect them both. A useless move when Fenris would need to step away to swing his larger sword, but the thought was touching.

 

"Wardens," Alistair said, grim and proud at the same time. If he'd had a speech in mind, he didn't have the time to voice it. The darkspawn burst out of the tunnels like a writhing shrieking wave. A blast of fire from Bethany's staff incinerated the front ranks, and then the masses were on them.

 


	15. The Deep Roads

For what felt like hours Fenris's whole world narrowed down to a very simple yet brutal existence. He whirled and ducked, lunged and jerked, swinging his sword like an axe because it wasn't very long at all before there was simply no room for any fancy maneuvering. There were a few heart-stopping moments when he was separated from the others as the darkspawn strove to draw them all away from each other and take them out one by one. Once, twice, three times he managed to slash his way back to Alistair's side, or found himself back to back with one of the other Wardens. Several Crows fell to this tactic before Zevran rallied them together. The tunnels were choked with dead darkspawn, but they continued to pour out of the darkness. The air rang with their screams, and all but one of the torches had been knocked aside and fizzled out.

 

Bethany finally set up a light spell that blinded everyone and gave a few moment's reprieve. By this light the Wardens and Crows were able to raggedly regroup and see better, but with every passing minute the light dimmed as Bethany's strength gave out. Dividing her attention between healing, light, and offensive spells was steadily whittling away at her willpower. She was downing an almost toxic amount of lyrium potions, but her spells were the only thing keeping the bulk of the horde at bay, and no one dared suggest she stop.

 

Fenris stumbled into a coal cart and belatedly realized that they'd been retreating for some time now. Many of the darkspawn had moved to block the way the Wardens had come in, and were inexorably forcing the desperate fighters further down into the caves.

 

“They're leading us to the Deep Roads,” Matwog gasped, kicking a genlock corpse off of his sword point. “Alistair was right; they must have tunneled into these caves from there. We'll be completely overrun.”

 

A nearby Crow stumbled past, clutching an ugly wound on his arm. “Well we can't go back the way we came!” he shouted, near hysteric. “Maybe we can lose them in the Deep Roads!”

 

“Are you insane?” Matwog protested. In the end, however, the point was moot. There was no going back. There were simply too many darkspawn between them and the exit. Slowly but steadily they were forced ever more downwards. Soon the walls were no longer rough dirt and rock, but ancient stone tunnels. Still, it took them all by momentary surprise when they burst into a cavern faintly lit from the phosphorous rocks embedded in the high ceiling.

 

Alistair looked around quickly, and cursed as he indicated rubble-- what had once been buildings. “We're in the Deep Roads now. We either need to find another way out, or prepare to make our peace with the Maker.”

 

"Speak for yourself!" one of the Crows laughed, wild-eyed. He flourished his sword and sent a war cry towards the tunnels. "We have more room to maneuver now! We can beat them!"

 

"He's new," Zevran apologized before smacking the young man upside the head, hard. "Little idiot. We're too exposed. They can surround us now. Why not stay silent and let the big boys handle things, yes?"

 

Vorn wiped gore and sweat from his face and indicated one of the tunnels on the far wall. "I don't feel any nearby darkspawn presence that way."

 

"That doesn't mean there aren't any further in," Thomas argued.

 

"What choice do we have?" Vorn retaliated angrily. "We're dead if we stay here!"

 

"He's right," Alistair agreed. "Perhaps we can find a way to bottleneck them. Let's go."

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

Their time in the Deep Roads became like a never-ending nightmare. The darkspawn picked up backup and poured into the tunnel after the beleaguered fighters as they stumbled in the dim light, hanging on to the tenuous hope that there would be a way out, or at least a place to make a last stand. To bring as many darkspawn down with them as possible.

 

It was a memory that would wake Fenris up in the night many times in the future, shivering and tense, with all the fear and crawling skin that had always accompanied nightmares of his time as a slave. Always before his memory-dreams had been focused on the horrors he himself had gone through at the hands of Danarius and other humans. The degradation, hopelessness, and pain he'd had to suffer through since his youth. But with the Deep Road came the pain of losing those he'd come to see as friends, and it was these memories that would slide along the back of his mind, seeped with guilt, for the next few years.

 

Thomas was the first to fall. He took a sword to the chest, putting himself between the blade and his brother, and managed to drag two more darkspawn down with him before death swept his legs out from under him and left him behind to be trampled. Matwog's shriek of rage and loss chilled Fenris to the bone.

 

Zevran's men were dropping like flies. They were not as heavily armored as the Wardens, and more accustomed to fighting alone. They relied on stealth and speed, on short daggers that did little to keep the horde back. Within minutes only three Crows remained, including their leader. Zevran, bleeding heavily from a gash on his temple, laughed wildly as he fought, seemingly unafraid.

 

But Fenris was suddenly more frightened than he could remember being in a long long time.

 

He snatched Bethany out of harm's way when she tried to get to Vorin, a pair of genlocks dragging the man down with raking claws. The very real threat of losing Bethany and Alistair to the darkspawn made Fenris's stomach tighten like a cold rock, gave the sweep of his blade an edge of frantic speed and weight. He shoved Bethany between himself and Alistair, suddenly all too aware of her flimsy mage robes, and did something he hadn't done since Kirkwall. He prayed, desperate and silent, in his head, and struggled to see through the sweat falling into his eyes. He could hear Bethany's quick pants of fear and exhaustion, feel her shoulder trembling violently from where she kept getting jostled into him. Fire and lightning cracked from her staff in all directions, keeping the worst of the masses from overwhelming them.

 

"We are so fucking fucked," Feila gasped. She, Matwog, and Zevran had closed ranks with them. The last two Crows fell, and that left the little circle of Wardens and Zevran at the center of the screeching mob, defiant but flagging.

 

"Tell me something... I don't know," Matwog panted, his face streaked with tears and sweat. "So long as we bring as many of these bastards down with us as we can, I can--"

 

One of the darkspawn from near the back of the crowd hurled a chunk of rock, and it cracked Bethany in the jaw audibly. She staggered, nearly dropping her staff as she fought to hang onto consciousness. A clawed hand darted out and seized her arm, wringing a frightened scream from her.

 

Feila twisted around and slammed both daggers into the hurlock's chest. It gurgled and released Bethany, staggering back. One of its comrades lunged forward and sank its teeth into Feila's wrist. Fenris grabbed for her frantically, but her belt slipped through his fingers roughly, nearly tearing his nail off. She disappeared into the writhing crowd of darkspawn, shouting curses and threats.

 

Zevran hissed something furious in Antivan, slitting the throat of the nearest darkspawn with a blurring flick of his wrist. "It was an honor to fight with you again, Alistair," he shouted over the noise of the darkspawn. "But have I mentioned how much I hate that you Wardens keep dragging me into your damned fights?"

 

Alistair laughed back breathlessly. He was tiring quickest of all. The weight of sword, shield and armor was taking its toll. The only thing keeping him on his feet was his stubborn refusal to let any darkspawn get past him to Bethany and Fenris, neither of them near as heavily armored as he. He glanced back towards Fenris, a quiet regret in his eyes. His gaze lingered an instant too long. Fenris saw the monstrosity bullying its way through the packed darkspawn and shouted a warning.

 

It was an ogre. Fenris had only seen one once before, and the sight still scared the shit out of him. His heart gave one frightened thump, then leapt up and lodged itself in his throat as the ogre reached out, surprisingly swift for its size, and seized Alistair in one giant hand. It lifted the struggling Warden like a rag doll, and Alistair lost his grip on his sword as he was shaken roughly. The blade clattered to the stone floor, and Bethany screamed.

 

Fenris shoulder-checked her as she moved forward, knocking her back towards Zevran. Darting forward, he swung his long sword horizontally, as hard as he could. At the same instant, drawing on the last of his reserves, he activated the lyrium under his skin, sending out a shocking pulse that knocked the darkspawn aside just long enough to leave his path clear.

 

His sword sliced into the ogre's leg, through skin and bone, and didn't stop until it had lodged itself halfway through the other leg. Tottering on its one remaining leg, bellowing with shock and agony, the ogre released its prize, staggering wildly. Alistair landed in a crash of armor, dazed, and barely managed to roll out of the way in time as the ogre came tumbling down a moment later, still squalling deafeningly.

 

Bethany was shrieking Fenris's name; the burst of lyrium had only kept the darkspawn back for a few moments, and they were already quickly moving to cut Fenris off from the others. He turned back, and swayed dangerously. His strength was all but gone. He could barely hold his sword off the ground. He stumbled back a step, blinking hard. It wasn't just exhaustion that weighted his limbs down. There was a numbing pain in his blood that was too subtle and strange to be his tattoos. This felt like it was rotting him from the inside out. He blinked again. His vision was slightly blurred, as if there was a gummy film over his eyes. He looked down at the trembling hands he still had clutched around his sword's hilt. Was it his imagination, or were those dark tendrils under his skin? It looked like poison or mud seeping through his veins. He dragged his gaze up and met Alistair's terrified eyes from across a stretch of darkspawn between the two of them.

 

_Should've kissed him more than once, maybe,_ Fenris thought, dry and detached. He forced his limbs to obey, to bring his sword up, heavy as the earth itself, and staggered back under the blow of a hurlock's rusted sword.

 


	16. Grief

The blade skittered past Fenris's weak guard and plunged into his shoulder, wrenching a pained cry from his lips. Somewhere he thought he heard Alistair call his name, but his vision was worsening. Lashing out blindly, he managed to kick the hurlock away. Rubbing harshly at his eyes, he struggled to get to his feet.

 

"For the Grey Wardens!" someone shouted. It sounded like a woman's voice-- but certainly not Bethany's. The answering roar startled Fenris, and he flinched in violent surprise as an arrow sang past his ear to thud home in a genlock's eye as it reached for him.

 

Fenris turned, squinting, just in time to see a small army of armored men and women as they came pouring out of the tunnels and hit the back ranks like a battering ram.

 

Taken completely off guard, the darkspawn hastened to face their new enemies, but they were being cut down with ruthless efficiency. Fenris forced himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his sword and reaching up clumsily with his free hand to staunch the blood coming out of his shoulder wound. His knees trembled, threatening to give, and he locked them stubbornly.

 

"Fenris!" Alistair had fought his way through, and caught the elf under the arm to hold him upright. "Maker, are you all right?"

 

"Fine," he mumbled, barely audible. He tried to swallow, but his throat was painfully dry. "Who..?" His vision wavered, and he stopped to rearrange his thoughts. A moment later Bethany and the others appeared around him, looking almost as exhausted as he felt. The darkspawn were no longer interested in them. Half were fleeing further into the Deep Roads, while the others fought tooth and nail against the warriors slicing them to pieces.

 

"Wardens," Zevran said in quiet surprise. "You could have told me you'd called for backup, Alistair. We would've waited."

 

"I didn't," Alistair insisted. "Bethany--"

 

"I can't do much," Bethany apologized. "I ran out of lyrium potions." She reached out towards Fenris, palm glowing with healing magic, then faltered. "Fenris? You don't look so good."

 

"He got stabbed, I think, but it doesn't look too serious," Alistair said, carefully prying Fenris's clutching fingers away from the wound. "Let us see it, Fen--" His voice stuttered and failed as he got a closer look at the elf. "Oh, Maker."

 

"That's right, run, you bastards!" Matwog yelled at the backs of the remaining darkspawn, who'd finally had enough and were racing off down a side tunnel.

 

One of the warriors pushed their way through the others-- a dwarf, by his small stature. Setting a bloodied axe aside to lean against a rock, he reached up and tugged his helmet free.

 

 _She_ , Fenris corrected himself absently. He swayed on his feet again, and Alistair held him up.

 

"Brosca," Alistair gasped. "Maker's breath, am I glad to see you. You saved us."

 

The dwarf's sweaty face cracked in a brief, tight smile. "Alistair. Good to see you alive and kicking. What is it with you trying to get yourself killed?"

 

"Bad habits a certain Hero of Ferelden taught me, I suppose. What are you _doing_ here?"

 

She gestured over her shoulder. "Following a lead. We heard there were a couple leftover Disciples-- those talking darkspawn. We were taking out some brood mothers and heard the battle." She nodded to Matwog and Bethany, and offered Zevran another of her quick smiles. "Zevran. Long time no see."

 

He gave an elegant bow, then winced and straightened, favoring his left foot. "As usual, we meet under the most extraordinary circumstances, dear Warden."

 

"Hmph." She looked at them each in turn and called over her shoulder, "Nate, Simon, front and center!"

 

Two men, one in a mage's robes, threaded their way through the other Wardens. "Who needs healing the most?" the mage asked.

 

"Fenris," Alistair and Bethany said immediately.

 

"He's been stabbed," Alistair started.

 

"And... maybe worse," Bethany added hesitantly.

 

Brosca leaned in closer, peering at Fenris somberly. "He's got the taint," she said quietly. She glanced at Alistair, noting the wrecked look on his face. "I'm sorry."

 

Fenris managed to force himself to speak at last. "Brosca." His voice was raspy and alien, and hurt coming out. "Heard ...lot about you from ...this mabari."

 

Brosca's mouth quirked, but she quickly suppressed her grin. "Mabari, huh? Yeah, that sounds like Alistair." Her face became serious once more. "You've been tainted by darkspawn blood. Do you understand the implications?"

 

Fenris blinked heavily, trying to ignore the acid oozing through his veins. He barely felt Alistair's hard grip holding him upright. "Dying."

 

"No--" Alistair started, but Brosca stopped him with an upheld hand.

 

"Who is this guy, anyway?" asked the archer Brosca had called forward. He was handing canteens out to the pitiful remnants of Alistair's team. He seemed to be having a hard time not staring at Bethany.

 

Alistair swallowed hard. "Fenris. From Kirkwall. Sort of. We... picked him up along the way. He's fought with us. He's..." he trailed off helplessly.

 

Alistair's locket had slipped free from underneath Fenris's breastplate in the fight. Brosca reached out, catching it in her fingertips and studying it wordlessly. "A brave man, then."

 

"Yes. Brosca... please, can we...?"

 

Brosca made a 'hmm' sound and released the locket. "Fenris. Can you hear me?"

 

Fenris nodded, struggling not to black out.

 

"There's only one possible way to save you from the taint, but it's a risk in and of itself. It could very well kill you."

 

"Already... dead."

 

"Fenris, you could be a Grey Warden," Bethany cut in, voice tearful. It wasn't until she spoke that Fenris realized she was holding him up on his other side. He'd dropped his sword at some point without even noticing. "It's a chance, but it's _something_."

 

"Being a Warden is a calling," Brosca continued, holding Fenris's gaze. "It's only for the best of the best. Those strong enough and brave enough to take on the responsibilities and risks we're expected to bear. But Alistair vouches for you. If you think you'd be willing to join the Wardens, we can attempt a Joining."

 

Fenris mustered up all of his willpower into giving the offer his full concentration.

 

He was being offered the choice to join the ranks of the Grey Wardens. To fight darkspawn for the rest of his days, as Alistair, Bethany, and the others did. He'd been in only a few battles with them, and the horror of what they faced was daunting, to say the least. Not everyone appreciated or understood what the Wardens were willing to do for complete strangers. It would be a thankless, terrifying, dangerous life. He wasn't sure it was what he wanted. Assuming he even survived this "Joining".

 

"Don't say 'yes' just to try and cheat death," Brosca said quietly. "If you've been fighting with Alistair and his party, you know what you could be getting yourself into."

 

Fenris stared back at her wordlessly. Twice he'd gone from slave to fugitive. For as long as he could remember, he'd relied on nothing but himself, thought foremost of no one but himself. Surviving and evading capture, perhaps one day finding a shady spot to hide-- this had been his all-consuming need for years. It was hard to imagine being what would basically amount to an unsung hero-- quite probably for people that would not even like him, if Prato was any example of what to expect.

 

"Fenris," Alistair started, a note of pleading to his tone. Brosca shot him a warning look.

 

"This is a choice he has to make for himself, Alistair."

 

He'd be fighting monsters for a living. But his service would grant him immunity from slave catchers. His duty might even make him feel like he was worth something more than a bounty.

 

And he'd be able to stay with Alistair.  


"I'll do it," he mumbled.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

Fenris blacked out shortly after his declaration, so was unaware of what transpired for the next hour, and had to be told later. Wary of another darkspawn ambush, Brosca led the Wardens through the underground maze with the stubborn lack of fear that came from having grown up right on their doorstep of the Deep Roads.

 

They repelled one more smaller, desperate attack, and managed to make it to the surface with no more casualties. They ended up miles away from the woods, coming aboveground in the ruins of what had once been an ancient temple. Still she wouldn't let them rest until they'd blocked the entrance and set up a quick camp. Two of her mages began preparing for the Joining ritual while the archer from earlier and a young healing mage tended to the wounded.

 

"Nathaniel Howe," the archer introduced himself to Bethany with a smile. "You're Bethany, right? Alistair's mentioned you before, but we haven't had a chance to meet."

 

She murmured a greeting, taking his hand in a brief shake. She flicked an anxious look towards Fenris, but there was little she could do for him. Alistair had taken him away from the crowd of Wardens and was sitting with his back against a fallen column, propping the elf against his side. He'd dozed off, and Fenris was still unconscious, though he shifted every now and then as if in pain.

 

"You probably shouldn't watch the ritual," Nathan said solemnly.

 

Bethany turned to glare at him. "I'm a Warden. It's not like I don't know what it entails."

 

"How many were at your Joining? Just you?"

 

"Two."

 

"And the other one made it?" At her nod, he continued carefully, "Not everyone does. Brosca wasn't kidding when she said it's risky. Plenty of people can't handle the taint. If it kills him, you shouldn't watch. It's quick and violent, and unsettling to watch. Especially if it's a friend."

 

She drew in a shuddering breath at his bluntness. For a moment she considered arguing, then forced herself to think about it seriously. Would she be able to handle watching Fenris die that way?

 

"It's going to be a private affair anyway," Nathan continued more gently. "Just Brosca and Alistair, is my guess. It'll be easier if you just let them handle it."

 

Bethany slumped, staring down at the mug of tea someone had pressed into her hand at some point. A part of her felt like a coward at the thought of avoiding the ritual, but a big part of her was relieved at the excuse to skip it. If the Joining failed, if she had to watch it violently snatch away Fenris's life... No. If it failed, she would mourn his body afterwards. She was emotionally exhausted. She wasn't sure she could handle witnessing another tragedy. She was still waiting for the inevitable anguish that would come in on the heels of her current numb state at losing half her friends.

 

"I'm sorry about the others," Nathan said as if reading her mind. "I'm sure they were very brave." And he really did sound sorry, not like someone stating a necessary condolence. She wondered briefly how much loss he'd personally experienced.

 

"They were," she whispered, and got to her feet, all her former grace absent. Nathan rose hastily, steadying her with a hand on her elbow. "Excuse me. I'm going to sit with Matwog for a bit. He... he lost his brother down there." She glanced up at him. "...Thanks."

 

He nodded, watching her make her way slowly over to a man curled up in the dirt in a tight ball of pain.

 

"Save it for later, lover boy," Brosca said, thumping his arm as she strode past. "Get the chalice from Regahn and Ilira. They should be done by now. I'm taking Alistair and his elf somewhere a little more private for the ritual." She pointed towards a small cluster of trees, all that was left of what had once been an orchard. "Bring the blood there. And stay." She paused, studying the two slumbering figures by the pillar. "He seems pretty fond of the elf. If this goes badly, Alistair's going to need a friend, so I want you to take the body and put it out of sight until I calm him down."


	17. The Joining

"Fenris. Wake up."

 

Alistair's voice, strained with a hint of false cheer, dragged Fenris slowly out of a murky doze. He blinked over and over before realizing that the blurriness marring everything was there to stay. Squinting, he closed his fingers over the arms holding him upright. He felt cloth and muscle, and caught a whiff of familiar soap under the stench of sweat and darkspawn gore. Alistair. He'd taken off his armor and was holding Fenris's dead weight up. Fenris blinked again, tried to speak, and gave up. His tongue felt like wool, and there was a foul taste in his mouth. Everything ached distantly, and his blood felt as if it were on fire. _The Taint_ , he remembered numbly, trying to get his feet to take his weight. He had vague, scattered recollections of the tail-end of the fight, his meeting with Brosca, and staggering to his feet to follow her and Alistair towards some trees. He must have passed out again briefly; overhead were the bare dead branches of the long-dead orchard trees. Squinting, he could finally make out a bit of the features of those with him.

 

Alistair, of course, holding him up; Brosca, waiting patiently nearby; and a third man he didn't recognize. Their faces were too fuzzy to make out their expressions, but he could feel a faint constant tremor in Alistair's arms under his fingertips. He couldn't decide if it was the effort of holding Fenris up, or something else.

 

"Fenris, you've agreed to the Joining," Brosca said quietly, holding forth a dented chalice. "Are you ready?"

 

"Wait," Alistair said, the word strangled, as if he'd tried and failed to hold it back.

 

Fenris tightened his grip on the man's arms in reassurance, mustering up the last vestiges of his strength. He straightened, wobbling but upright without aid. His tongue was still uncooperative, so he nodded.

 

Brosca's voice was quiet and solemn. "Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn." She handed Fenris the chalice and took a step back. "And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten... and that one day, we shall join you."

 

Fenris hesitated with the chalice halfway to his mouth. He couldn't make out what the contents were by sight, but the smell was unmistakable; he'd been wallowing in the stench for hours. His stomach lurched in disapproval. Blood. Darkspawn blood. He was supposed to _drink_ this?

 

It was the only chance at living that he had left. Not just surviving, but maybe actually feeling like it was worth being alive. A Warden's life was hard, he'd seen that much. But if he had to choose between being a runaway slave and a force for good, well...

 

He took a gulp of the blood before his stomach or nerve could fail him. Brosca took the chalice away, and for a few tense moments, nothing happened.

 

Then Fenris's stomach gave a violent cramp, followed quickly by a blinding headache. Fenris doubled over, taking a painful gasp of air. He staggered and fell to his knees, grabbing desperately for a firm grasp of the soil, rocks, grass, anything-- the world was spinning, and it was going to throw him right off. Dimly he thought he heard Alistair's voice, frightened and desperate.

 

A flashbomb went off in his head, bringing with it a flurry of horrific images he didn't understand, there and gone too fast to process. Then darkness replaced everything, and he slipped away into it, grateful for the escape.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

" _Fenris!_ "

 

"Alistair--" Nate stepped forward quickly to grab the man. "Wait. I'm sorry--"

 

"Quiet," Brosca interrupted sharply. She was squatting by the elf's inert form, studying him intently. "He's still breathing." She glanced up at the two men with a quirked brow. "I didn't have a good reaction to the Joining either, Alistair, in case you forgot. He should come around soon." Her grim expression softened into a smile. "Looks like we've got another Warden."

 

Fenris stirred, eyelashes fluttering, and Alistair shoved Nate away roughly, hurrying over to assist his friend. He took the elf's shoulders in a careful grip and helped him sit upright. "Are you okay?"

 

Fenris blinked slowly, twice, but when he finally shifted his gaze towards Alistair, his eyes were clear once more. Tired, but no longer murky with darkspawn poison. Alistair lifted one of the man's arms to inspect it nervously. The dark threads that had been standing out on his skin, proof of his diseased blood, were fading by the moment, leaving only the now-familiar lyrium tattoos. Alistair gave an involuntary little bark of relieved laughter.

 

Fenris swallowed and cleared his throat, but his voice was still as raspy as a rusted gate. "It worked?"

 

"Yes." Brosca took his hand in a short but firm handshake. "You are now a Grey Warden, Fenris. Welcome."

 

"Welcome to our brotherhood," Nate said grandly. Then, with a glance towards Brosca, "Or... family, anyway."

 

Fenris stared at him, at a loss for words.

 

"Can you stand?" Alistair asked anxiously.

 

"I think so." Fenris rose slowly, carefully, and resisted the automatic impulse to shrug off Alistair's hand when it landed on his shoulder to steady him.

 

Brosca pushed herself up from her crouch, dusting off her gauntleted hands briskly. "As soon as we're sure the area is safe, we're going to set up a more permanent camp. There are wounds that need to be tended to, and prayers for the dead to be said. Then we're off for Ferelden."

 

"You're coming back to Vigil's Keep?" Nate asked in surprise.

 

"Temporarily. I'll stay there just long enough to speak with the Seneschal and see how things are going there, and then I'm needed at Weisshaupt."

 

Alistair frowned. "Wait, what about Antiva? We still have to--" he hesitated out of habit before remembering that there would be no Grey Warden secrets from Fenris anymore. "There are still the rumors of rogue Wardens in the capital. You said yourself that it was important that we get to the bottom of it."

 

"Rogue Wardens?" Fenris repeated.

 

"A dozen or so Wardens, previously thought dead, have been stirring up political problems in Antiva," Brosca explained. "The first thing you must learn is that politics are not our area. Period. Leave the political bullshit to the Chantry and the monarchs. Our job is to protect the people from darkspawn. But there have been troubling rumors that the newest royal bully boys in Antiva are ex-Wardens. This cannot stand."

 

Fenris realized he'd unconsciously been leaning against Alistair for support and held himself upright. "Are they still pretending to be Wardens, or posing as everyday mercenaries?"

 

"You are a Warden for life. It's a calling, not a job. Even if they haven't told anyone where they got their training-- which is doubtful, since they've managed to get employed by the crown --this cannot stand."

 

"Which is why it's important that we take care of this," Alistair pressed.

 

"Alistair." Brosca's voice was quiet, somber. "I hate to point out the painful truth, but you just lost most of your men back there. You've got a powerful mage, yes, but Matwog's in bad shape over the loss of his brother. And Fenris is a newcomer. That leaves only you as the most experienced Warden in a very small troop. I'm not sending the four of you into the Antivan capital to ruffle feathers. You need to come back to Vigil's Keep to resupply and get a new team together. And leave Matwog there to grieve."

 

"But--"

 

"But nothing. You know I'm right. The rogue Wardens in Antiva have been fairly quiet so far. They can wait another few weeks until you have your new team."

 

Alistair sighed heavily, but gave a short nod. "Yeah. I know."

 

"I'll go," Fenris volunteered, the words blurting past his lips before he knew he was going to say them. He pressed his lips tight together and fought back a blush with all of his willpower when Brosca's knowing gaze twitched his way.

 

"You're still green, newblood," she said, not unkindly. The shadow of a smile played at the corners of her lips. "You can obviously look out for yourself, but we like to give our new recruits at least _some_ training."

 

"I've been fighting all my life," Fenris retorted.

 

"I'll train him," Alistair said quickly. "I mean, we're already used to fighting together."

 

Brosca shrugged, turning to hide her smile. "If you wish. Come, Nate. We've still got to set up camp. Alistair, stay here a moment with your friend and make sure he's steady on his feet."

 

"I'm fine," Fenris started to argue, and realized belatedly she was trying to give the two of them a bit of privacy in the secluded orchard. There was an awkward pause as they stood together watching the two Wardens stride off.

 

"Interesting woman," Fenris finally said, because he had to say something. "I think I can see how she was able to gather an army and stop a Blight."

 

Alistair's dirty face cracked in a grin. "She takes a little getting used to, but she's good people."

 

"I find her forthrightness refreshing," Fenris admitted. He held up a hand, studying the palm as if seeking the same darkspawn taint Alistair had so anxiously checked for earlier. "So the taint's gone now?"

 

"Er... no. That's not how it works. You've still got the taint, but it won't kill you. Yet."

 

"Yet?"

 

Alistair took a deep breath like a man about to deliver the news of a death in the family. "Wardens-- assuming they aren't killed in battle --generally only last about thirty years. The taint will eventually seep into every part of you, quite probably drive you mad, and eventually kill you. Before this happens, Wardens who can sense it coming have a habit of taking off into the Deep Roads, since by then the darkspawn can't sense them. They spend the rest of their days killing as many darkspawn as possible. It's a grim future, but it's still a better chance than you had ten minutes ago."

 

Fenris nodded slowly. He started to lower his hand, then remembered something. Unclasping the thin chain from around his neck, he held out the locket to his friend. "Here. I promised to return this to you."

 

Alistair hesitated, then reached out and closed the elf's fingers back over the locket. "You can keep it. It's kept you safe once already."

 

"I thought you said it was your mother's."

 

"Yes, well..." Alistair floundered, staring down at their hands rather than meet Fenris's unwavering stare. "It's not like it's going very far, right? I mean... you're a Warden now. And you said you wanted me to train you, that you'll be going with me to Antiva later. So... just stay close and I'll know it's safe. And that you're safe as well."

 

Fenris's own gaze dropped, and another long tense silence reigned.

 

"Maker's breath!" came an explosive huff from behind one of the trees, causing them both to start violently. "Will somebody get with the snogging already?"

 

"Bethany!" Alistair protested, his face a brilliant shade of scarlet.

 

Bethany stepped out from behind the tree, looking more put-upon than guilty. "I was just checking on Fenris. But seriously, you two. Can we please end this horrible day on a pleasant, more hopeful note? The way you two flail about with emotions would put a drowning cat to shame."

 

"Go away," Fenris suggested darkly, trying to hide his humiliation.

 

Bethany ignored the unspoken threat, coming over to envelop the startled elf in a brief hug. "I'm glad you're all right. Welcome to the Wardens." She smiled at him. "I know you'll make us proud." She held up her hands defensively when Alistair gave her a meaningful Look. "I'm going, I'm going. Just don't dawdle too long. I want to check you both for injuries later."

 

Alistair shook his head at her retreating back, and offered Fenris a weak lopsided smile. "Sorry. Er, maybe we should get back."

 

Fenris opened his hand to look at the locket in his palm and, after a moment's hesitation, slipped the chain back over his head.

 

Alistair watched, an almost pitiful glint of hope in his eyes. "Does that mean you'll stay?"

 

"I'm a Warden now. Kind of have to."

 

"Oh. I meant-- Well, I meant with--"

 

Fenris reached up and wrapped strong fingers around the other man's shoulders, bringing his head forward to bump their foreheads together lightly. "Besides, someone's got to watch your back," he muttered. "You big mabari."

 

A wide grin split Alistair's face, a laugh bubbling in his throat. "Is this going to be a thing now? Are you going to insist on calling me that in front of my men as well?"

 

"I'll call you what I want," Fenris declared loftily, the words half-muffled by the mouth suddenly pressing against his own.

 


	18. Body Heat

 

Alistair seemed unwilling to let Fenris out of his sight after that. It was as if he was afraid it had all been a dream he would wake up from; that if he looked away, Fenris would be dead from the taint, or would never have kissed him back so readily in the orchard.

 

Bethany and Brosca watched with knowing little smiles as the Warden trailed along after Fenris, helping him to set up tents, lay out bedrolls, and move the injured to the temporary infirmary tent. Fenris, for once, didn't seem to mind the other man's constant presence.

 

"At least something's going right tonight," Bethany noted, her worried gaze drifting towards Matwog. The young man was seated by the fire, knees tucked up to his chest, staring unseeing into the flames. He seemed unaware of everything around him, and hadn't responded to the healer or one of the Wardens who'd offered him food.

 

"Matwog's bounced back from horrors before," Brosca pointed out. "He just needs time."

 

Bethany sighed, pushing her hair out of her face. "I hope so. It's one thing to see a whole village wiped out by darkspawn. Horrible, yes, but it's different when it's one of your own. Matwog and his brother were always very close."

 

"How about you? How are you holding up?" Brosca cocked a brow at her. "You've lost a lot of friends in the last few days."

 

Bethany shuddered, hugging herself unconsciously. "I've been pushing it into the back of my mind, ever since Kel died. It's only when I lay down for the night that it haunts me. Vorn was always an ass, but he didn't deserve that. Thomas and Kel were good men; I liked them. And Feila..." For a moment her face crumpled, but she got ahold of herself with a firm appliance of will.

 

Nate had been hovering nearby, and stepped forward with a suggestion. "You should take a sleeping draught tonight. You look like you really need the rest, and it may keep away the nightmares."

 

"I myself have always found that a good roll in the hay does wonders for one's peace of mind," chipped in Zevran, strolling over with a cocky smile.

 

Brosca rolled her eyes. "You would say that. Don't listen to him, Bethany. He can only think with one head at a time."

 

Zevran sniffed, adjusting the bandage wrapped around his head. He'd lost almost half an ear in the fight. "Spoken like someone who has clearly never taken my excellent advice. Or was there something you wished to tell me about that cute little Legion of the Dead outcast?"

 

"Bah." Brosca shooed him off. "Go do something useful and help Nate check the perimeter."

 

Zevran trailed after Nate, but did not relent in his teasing. "She is quite fond of you, from what I've heard," he called.

 

"I have an axe, and I will use it," Brosca snapped.

 

Bethany hid her smile behind her hand. "Sigrun?" she guessed.

 

Brosca held up a warning finger. "One more word from you, missy, and I'll drug you myself and you can go to bed with no supper. Now go try and get some food down Matwog. His mind may be taking a vacation, but his body still needs nutrition."

 

"Yes, ma'am," Bethany said with exaggerated meekness, already dodging out of reach.

 

Brosca grunted and returned her attention to Alistair. She'd worried, at first, how he might react to losing most of his squad. Alistair was always ready to take on guilt, always the first to see any imagined worthlessness in himself. But perhaps his odd relationship with the tattooed elf would help him through it. Hell, she'd begun to think he'd never be able to bring himself to have a relationship with anyone after... She flinched slightly, shoving her own momentary flash of guilt to the back of her mind. There was no hiding from the fact that she'd brought up the suggestion of Alistair completing the ritual with Morrigan. Even if he'd forgiven her for it, even if he'd even argued the case-- that Brosca was needed, and that her death would have gained them nothing in the fight against the archdemon --she knew that night had not been altogether pleasant for him. Perhaps all he'd needed was someone even more haunted and guilty than himself. Someone as strong inside as he was.

 

With a slight smile, she turned her attention to the rest of her men.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

Words for the dead were said over the blocked-up tunnel, a hot meal was prepared, and the moon had only just risen by the time the exhausted warriors were ready for bed. Brosca posted guards and directed Alistair towards one of the few tents. "You and your squad can sleep in there. My people will rotate the night watch. We're a little fresher, and you look like you're going to fall down any minute."

 

Alistair didn't have it in him to argue. Muttering good tidings, he stumbled off to the tent, hands already moving automatically to undo his armor. He ducked under the tent flap and paused. Something was not right.

 

There weren't separate bedrolls. Instead someone had unrolled them and laid them out so they covered the entire floor of the tiny space. More blankets had been tossed in for cover, and there was a single lantern turned on low to give a little light. He stepped into the tent, blinking owlishly. It looked comfortable and awkward at the same time. What if he rolled over in his sleep and squashed Bethany? And Matwog probably wanted to be left alone as much as possible.

 

The tent flap opened and Fenris stepped in. He, too, stopped and frowned at the scene for a moment, nonplussed.

 

"Bethany said she's going to stay in Brosca's tent," he said slowly, eyeing the comfortable scene with growing suspicion. "I think maybe she wants to cry, but doesn't want to in front of us. Matwog's made a bedroll for himself next to the fire and isn't budging." He sent a significant look from the blanket nest to Alistair. "Or did you already know that?"

 

" _I_ didn't set this up!" Alistair protested quickly. "Brosca told me this was where we were all staying tonight."

 

Fenris snorted quietly and unbuckled his sword.

 

Feeling oddly self-conscious, Alistair silently stripped himself of his own armor. Relieved to be free of the weight, he set it in the corner with Fenris's sword. Fenris himself only cast off his armored gloves, shoulder guards, and belt before stretching out on the mass of bedrolls. He picked one of the blankets and curled up in it in the fetal position with a muttered 'good night'.

 

Alistair lay down hesitantly, trying to keep as much space between them as politely possible, and chose his own blanket. Without his armor, he was beginning to feel the night's chill, and buried himself under the blanket up to his chin. He reached out to douse the lantern, and stared into the darkness, listening absently to the sounds of the rest of the camp settling down for sleep. Somewhere feet crunched through dirt as the night watch made their rounds. Despite his exhaustion, sleep eluded him. He could not help but be hyper-aware of the elf's close proximity.

 

After what felt like ages but was probably less than an hour, he heard Fenris give a quiet sigh. Covers rustled in the dark, and Alistair nearly jumped out of his skin as a slender body moved up right against his own, a hot line against his side.

 

"I'm cold," came Fenris's defensive mutter.

 

Alistair didn't bother to hide his goofy grin-- it wasn't like Fenris could see it anyway. He arranged the blanket over them both, and felt a tiny bit of tension leave the elf's body. He turned his head slightly so his forehead touched the elf's, their breath mingling. A hesitant hand snaked up and lay against Alistair's chest.

 

Then at last exhaustion took its toll, and they both fell into a deep sleep.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

Visions of darkspawn, death, and the dark and twisted tunnels of the Deep Roads wrenched Fenris out of a fitful sleep an hour or two before sunrise. He sat up quickly, hand moving instinctively for a sword that wasn't there, wild eyes staring as he fought to adjust his sight to the gloom.

 

Beside him, Alistair mumbled sleepily and rolled onto his back. The Warden propped himself up on his elbows, blinking owlishly. "Fe'ris?" he queried, voice thick with sleep. His own instincts told him nothing was amiss, but his friend's sudden movement had him uncertain. "S'thing wrong?"

 

Fenris took a deep breath and expelled it a trifle shakily. His eyes had started to pick out shapes in the darkness, and Alistair's sleep-tousled form was reassuring. "Nothing. Just dreams."

 

"Darkspawn, right?" Alistair guessed with a jaw-cracking yawn. He sat up beside the elf, rubbing at his eyes. "It's the taint. Wardens often have dreams about them. They're more like visions, really. You're lucky there isn't a Blight going on; you'd be hearing the Archdemon in your head." He yawned again, looking a little more awake. His palm made a scratching sound as he rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. "A lot of the older Wardens say they can suppress the dreams after awhile. I don't have them much anymore."

 

"And Brosca?"

 

"I've been a Warden a little longer than she has, but even if she could suppress the dreams, I'm not sure she would. Says she likes to 'keep an eye on them'. Sounds creepy if you ask me, but she's gotten pretty good at sensing when they're up to no good. It's probably bad dreams that drove her out here to put a stop to those talking darkspawn she said they were fighting yesterday." He reached blindly out to place a comforting hand on Fenris's back. "Try to get some sleep. We've a long march in the morning."

 

Fenris hesitated, arms clasped around his legs, and studied the man in silence. His night vision was better than Alistair's. He was probably just a shape in the dark to the Warden. Somehow that comforted him. Turning on his hip so he was half-facing the other man, he leaned forward and gave him a soft, close-mouthed kiss.

 

Alistair jumped slightly, taken off guard. His hand had slipped from Fenris's back and hovered right by a narrow hip.

 

The nightmares had shaken Fenris more for than just their base scare factor. They'd reminded him of how close he'd come to dying yesterday. How close _Alistair_ had come to being crushed by that ogre. He recalled regretting not having had the guts to do more than nervously kiss the larger man one time. As a Warden, his life now had added dangers. The possibility of death loomed ever on the horizon, and he didn't want to face his own death again with such surprising regrets.

 

In one quick movement he was straddling the man's hips, hands clasping strong shoulders. He kissed Alistair again, harder, but the other Warden pulled back after a moment.

 

"Fenris-- wait." His hands had moved up instinctively to grasp the elf's sides, the grip loose and uncertain. He leaned his head back slightly out of reach. "I know Bethany and Brosca were teasing in a very not-subtle way, and... and Maker knows I've probably made it clear that I'm very fond of you, but I can wait. I mean it. Don't do this because you're scared of dying, or because you think it's what I want."

 

Fenris paused, touched in a way that almost hurt. He was suddenly glad the darkness hid his expression from his companion. "I'm doing this because _I_ want to," he said at last, firmly. Then, more quietly, "For once the choice is mine and not someone else's. Trust me, I am fully aware and... grateful for that."

 

He thought he caught a shadow of sympathy on Alistair's face. Not quite pity-- more like shared pain. He made a mental note to dig to the bottom of that particular demon at a later point in the future, and leaned forward for another kiss. This time it was returned with shy enthusiasm.

 

Alistair let himself fall back against the pillow, and rolled so that Fenris slipped off and they lay on their sides facing each other, limbs tangled. He caught Fenris's mouth in a long, deep kiss, and Fenris wriggled a hand loose, sliding it up under the Warden's shirt to map out the muscled torso underneath. Alistair pulled away slightly, voice hitching. His own hands seemed unsure of what to do; Fenris's clothing was much more restricting. After a moment's hesitation, he dipped his hand down to the one place he could gain access to, tugging at the strings on the elf's pants.

 

Fenris pressed his mouth to a scratchy neck, fingers leaving dents in tanned skin as he shifted his hips, making it easier for an unsure hand. Their breathing sounded loud and ragged enough in his ears to wake the camp, and he bit down lightly on Alistair's throat to muffle a moan as he felt himself grasped in a place he'd once sworn he would never let anyone touch again. It made all the difference in the world, he noted a bit hazily, when the touch was one he'd asked for.

 

Not to be outdone, he abandoned the pectorals under his palm and slipped his fingers under the Warden's waistband. Alistair made an odd noise, somewhere between a squeak and a groan, and Fenris grinned against his mouth. Alistair lifted his free hand to cup Fenris's cheek, kissing him desperately. Fenris had learned at a young age how to drive a man wild with his hands, and already he could feel Alistair's body starting to shake.

 

Panting, Fenris edged closer, giving the hand pulling at him more room to maneuver. He wished for a fleeting instant that they were far away from anyone else in a locked warm room where he could be more bold and exploratory. He was also suddenly wildly curious about just how noisy he could coax Alistair into being when there was no fear of being overheard.

 

Alistair came suddenly, surprising them both. He hunched up, barely managing to bury his cry in Fenris's shoulder. His grip spasmed, then jerked, and Fenris followed shortly after with a sharp gasp, hips jerking. They lay entangled for several minutes, struggling to bring their heart rates and breathing back under control. There was a very faint gray light that heralded the coming dawn, and in it Alistair's dopey smile was plainly evident. "Sorry," he muttered a little sheepishly.

 

"For what?" Fenris snorted, pulling his hand free and wiping it off on a corner of the blanket. He felt relaxed and sinuous, and the little nest of blankets was warm. He had absolutely no desire to go anywhere, even to clean up the brief mess.

 

"That was, uh, quick," Alistair pointed out, looking a trifle embarrassed. "Afraid I don't really have much experience in... well, this."

 

Fenris smirked, satisfied. _'Not yet you don't,'_ he thought, but kept it to himself. He had plans for when they eventually reached the fabled Keep. He blinked heavily. He was sated and drowsy, and they still had at least another hour before it would be time to move out. Alistair's heavy arm encircled him, pulling him a little closer. He laid a light kiss on the elf's brow, and Fenris allowed himself to move in even closer so it was hard to tell where one man began and another ended.

 

This was how Bethany found them when she came to wake them shortly after dawn. With a little grin she let the tent flap fall closed and crept away. The sounds of the camp would wake them soon enough. For now, she was content to let them sleep in each other's arms, their faces more relaxed than she'd ever seen them.


	19. Ferelden

Brosca's band of Wardens-- those who had survived the fight, anyway --numbered just over a dozen men and women. It felt odd to be traveling with such a large party, many of them wildly different in appearance and mannerisms. They'd come from all walks of life, choosing to join the Wardens for reasons noble or desperate: blacksmiths, nobles, bakers, house slaves, hunters, fishermen, soldiers. All had left their old lives and titles behind, many of them who had joined out of patriotic impulse shortly after the last Blight. Most were human, but there were two elves and another dwarf besides Brosca. One of the elves, a skittish young man with only one eye, had been liberated from a Tevinter slaver by his grim companion, a slender proud elf who had obviously been a Dalish hunter. She was almost unconsciously protective and watchful of the former slave who hung at her elbow, and offered Fenris a brief but respectful nod as the group set out shortly after dawn. The Dalish clans had always made Fenris slightly uncomfortable, an attitude shared by many elves raised amongst humans, so he returned the nod wordlessly and avoided her after that.

 

The pitiful remains of Alistair's former team stuck close together, Matwog walking along as if sleepwalking. Bethany walked with him to offer silent comfort and coax a bit of food and water into him every few hours. Zevran had last been seen flirting shamelessly with a fair-haired young man near the front of the procession, but Nathaniel dropped back to walk close to Bethany, starting awkward conversations in an effort to get to know each other. Mostly they spoke of Ferelden.

 

Alistair was very quiet for the first couple of hours, and Fenris walked beside him supportively. He had an idea what plagued Alistair's mind to put such a faraway look in his eyes, so he was unsurprised when Alistair quietly began to reminisce.

 

"I'm the one who recruited Matwog and his brother," he said, staring straight ahead. His eyes were slitted against the dust stirred up by so many feet on the road. "They'd been living on the streets most of their lives; they're from Denerim, and their parents were killed when they were young. By cutthroats in an alley, so I'm assuming they were fairly well off. The few extended family the brothers had left took all the money and just sort of... left them to fend for themselves. They were pickpockets and fences, and they finally got themselves caught about three years ago. I was on my way to the city when they were run down on the road by the city guard, who'd been chasing them for the last mile or two. It wasn't any of my business, but the guard started beating them right there. I guess they were mad at having been led on such a long chase. Anyway, the brothers fought back, but they were more busy trying to shield each other, so eventually I stepped in." He grinned crookedly. "Couldn't get rid of them after that." His sad gaze shifted towards Matwog. "They only had each other to rely on for a long time. I hope Matwog can bounce back from this."

 

"He just needs time," Fenris said, more because it felt like the thing to say than because he had any faith that it was true. "Bethany lost her twin brother not too long ago; she'll be able to help."

 

"That's true..."

 

"And Kel? Did you recruit him as well?"

 

"No, he was recruited elsewhere while I was on a mission. I met him at the tail-end of his training. His didn't take very long; he was a soldier before he'd volunteered to join the Wardens. Nothing special, just an ordinary grunt, but he'd seen a lot of people die while he and his squad protected Denerim during the Blight. I suppose it was patriotism that drove him to join us." His sigh was just this side of shaky. "He was the big brother of the group. I'll miss him. And Feila... Maker... I didn't even think of how Brosca might feel about that. She's the one who recruited her two summers ago. They used to have drinking contests late into the night. She was sort of a last-minute addition to my squad, though it didn't take long for everyone to grow attached to her." He rubbed at his face roughly. "And I never got along too well with Vorin, but he didn't deserve to die like that. I never should have taken us down there..."

 

"As Brosca so firmly reminded me yesterday, being a Warden is a dangerous occupation," Fenris said, sympathetic but firm. "They knew what they signed up for. You did what you thought was best in order to protect civilians. You can't spend the rest of your life blaming yourself. Leaders inevitably get people killed for the greater good. If you weren't cut out for this, Brosca never would have left you in charge while she was off on other business."

 

Alistair flicked him a wry look. "It's a little disconcerting how comforting your bluntness can be sometimes. You and Brosca are going to get along famously."

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

The familiar lull of travel helped bring normalcy back to Alistair's ragtag group as the days passed. Matwog remained distant and sad, but began responding when spoken to directly, and Bethany seemed more like herself. She spent a good amount of time speaking with Nate, though half the time they seemed to be arguing heatedly, and it was not unusual for them to ignore each other huffily for hours at a time. Alistair fretted over it, but Brosca observed their childish courtship with dry good humor.

 

Fenris, still uncomfortable around strangers, spoke very little to Brosca's Wardens. They let him be for the most part, perhaps assuming he was grieving much like Matwog. There were not quite enough tents to go around, so Fenris and Alistair were unable to spend another night alone during their trek. This did not stop Alistair from stealing a kiss or two any time they found a brief moment alone during guard duty or when foraging for firewood.

 

Fenris took up sparring once more. After seeing him hold his own against Alistair, several of the Wardens offered to cross blades with him. Each of them was highly skilled, and it was good practice. Several of them proved quite a challenge, and despite her short stature, Brosca proved impossible to overpower, much less beat. He learned much about fighting tactics in the weeks it took them to wind their way back south to Ostwick, where Brosca made arrangements for them aboard a merchant's ship making a run to Amarantine.

 

"You've been on a ship before, surely?" Alistair asked, noting the wary way Fenris eyed the sailors and the enormous ship itself from where they waited on the docks.

 

Fenris stepped aside to dodge a pair of men carrying supplies, and grimaced. "Yes. But I was always kept in the hold with the other slaves. I was often sick."

 

"Well, we won't be getting our own cabin or anything," Alistair admitted. "So it'll be cramped. But it won't be as bad as what you've experienced, I promise. And you can go out on deck any time you start to feel queasy or cooped up."

 

Bethany had come to stand with them, and was admiring the sheer size of the galleon with wide eyes. "My family and I were crammed into the hold of a small fishing ship with the other refugees when we fled Ferelden. Even when I first went to Amaranthine after joining the Wardens, and when we came here for our business in Antiva, we had to take a pretty small vessel. I've never been on one this big before." She sent Fenris a quick smile. "So we can get seasick together."

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

Fenris, surprisingly, was only briefly seasick, though Bethany was miserable for the entirety of the short voyage. She remained curled up in her bunk or hanging over the rails, moaning and puking up just about everything she managed to eat. Zevran both mothered her and mocked her during her illness, which seemed to irritate Nate to no end. It was perhaps in part why he did it at all, Fenris mused.

 

After his initial bout of seasickness, Fenris found himself almost enjoying the trip. Isabela had always lauded the life of a sailor, and now he thought he understood at least partly why the sea had called to her so strongly. He would stand at the forecastle's rails for most of the day, gazing out across the endless plains of choppy water and letting the salty wind chap his skin and tug at his hair. Alistair would join him sometimes, but something about the great emptiness of the sea seemed to depress him, and he never gazed out at it for long. To Alistair it represented loneliness and loss; to Fenris, it looked just as Isabela had said it would.

 

It looked like freedom.

 

All too soon the trip was over, and for the first time Fenris set foot on Ferelden soil. Bethany perked up almost immediately, clearly glad to be home at last.

 

"Ah, Ferelden. Land of dogs and mud," Alistair said with affection. Fenris felt a smile twitch at his mouth. He'd heard many in Kirkwall speak derisively of the country-- a prejudice in large part a reaction to the unwanted flood of fugitives, no doubt. Hawke had always taken offense to the attitude.

 

Salin, the stern Dalish woman, looked southward, almost quivering with eagerness. She caught Fenris watching her. "I was born here," she explained. "We Dalish may be nomads, but I remember well the woods where I spent my childhood." She looked into the distance again as if she could see straight into the past. "Not all memories of Ferelden are good ones, but it somehow feels good to be back." Bethany smiled in agreement.

 

Fenris felt a slight twinge of jealousy. The furthest back he could remember was Tevinter, and he could conjure no good memories of the place at all. He could not imagine ever being homesick.

 

"Everything aboveground looks alike to me," Brosca grunted, and he could not tell if she was serious or not. "Come, let's resupply and catch some rest. I want to set out as early as possible."

 

Matwog, who had been silent from the moment they spotted Ferelden on the horizon, took a flask of wine from his hip and uncorked it. Tilting it, he watched the crimson stream spatter into the dust. "Home, brother," he murmured. Tossing the empty canteen away, he strode off after Brosca, deliberately avoiding the sympathetic looks of his fellows.

 

Fenris reached out and touched Alistair's arm briefly, hoping to banish the flash of guilt from his eyes. "Come on. You can show me dogland."

 

A smile pulled at the corner of Alistair's mouth. "Mabari are great animals. If more people had them, I bet they wouldn't make fun of us so much. Beth, didn't you have one?"

 

They began extolling the virtues of the big Ferelden dogs, and Fenris let them prattle on, glad to leave the ghosts of Kirkwall behind them on the dock.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

The Ferelden countryside lived up to just about every snide comment Fenris had ever heard.

 

There were few trees; mostly dirt roads leading through grasslands and the occasional swamp, the hard-packed earth long ago beaten down by farmers and their carriages of goods to sell. It rained three days in a row, which covered absolutely everything and everyone in cold mud. They were forced to stick to rations because it rained so heavily at night they couldn't keep a fire going. Even the Fereldens in the party were miserable, and everyone perked up when the sun finally showed its face.

 

When they finally came upon a forest, Brosca made a point of going around.

 

“Most of the forests are infested with spirits, bloodthirsty beasts, and territorial Dalish,” she explained when Fenris questioned the detour. “It'll only take an extra day to go around.”

 

Fenris peered into the depths of the forest as he walked the faint path around its edges. The trees looked ancient, and the foliage was so thick he could barely see into the forest itself. He got the sense he was being watched by unfriendly eyes, though there was no sign of an attack in the day it took them to skirt around. Fenris had never been overly comfortable in forests to begin with. He'd been born and raised in a city, and always found it easiest to get lost in the streets of cities he'd passed through during his initial flight from Danarius.  
  


The feeling of being watched had them all on edge, and they were happy to leave the forest and its mistrusting inhabitants behind.

 

The length of the journey helped to bring Matwog a bit out of his haze of grief. He even started to joke a bit, though when left to his own devices he could often be seen staring into empty air, a hollow look in his eyes. Bethany and Nate had taken it upon themselves to keep him as preoccupied as possible, and the three of them became thick as thieves: telling stories, speaking with other Wardens, and especially teasing Alistair and Fenris. They tried to pull a prank on Brosca once and only once, and then kept a respectful distance.

 

“Ancestors, those two bring out the worst in Nate,” Brosca grumbled to Alistair one night from where they were seated around one of the fires. She was tearing up her bread into little pieces and dropping it into her stew, narrowed eyes on the trio seated at another fire. “They've got him acting like a child.”

 

Alistair chuckled. “He always struck me as a little _too_ grim and moody. Maybe it's good for him to act like a childish prat sometimes.”

 

“Hmph,” Brosca said, stirring the bread into her stew, her eyes a little softer. “True enough. I always got the feeling he had to grow up fast and hard. He was a bitter man when I found him.” She took a sip of her dinner and hesitated, peering into her bowl with an unreadable expression. “Alistair. I thought I told you not to volunteer for cooking duty.”

 

Fenris, who'd been about to take his own first taste of the stew, paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth.

 

Alistair beamed. “I know, I know, that's for the lower ranks and all that. But I miss it! I've been so homesick, and now I have a reason to make good old fashioned Ferelden lamb stew again! Good, huh?”

 

Fenris inspected the odd-colored lump on his spoon with sudden suspicion. “This is lamb?”

 

“Of course it is!” Alistair looked at him, hurt. “Why does everyone always sound so skeptical when I tell them that?”

 

Brosca set her bowl aside carefully. “I think I'll go see if there's more bread.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is as far as I've gotten, so far; all the other chapters were catch-up from what I had already posted on the kink meme.


	20. A Distaste for Politics

Zevran parted from them the following day. He had lost all of his men in the Deep Roads, and claimed he was now on a mission of recruitment.

 

“There are a handful of Crows in Denerim; some of them will be hunting down marks, others are deserters,” he explained. “I shall recall the former and deal with the latter.” His quick, toothy grin hinted at what he meant by “deal with”. He offered a deep but mocking bow to those who had gathered to see him off. “Always a pleasure to see you, my dear Warden. And you as well, Alistair. Try not to get killed.” He winked at Fenris, goosed Bethany, and was strolling off into the hills before Nate could get more than a sputtering protest out.

 

“Ridiculous man,” Brosca huffed, visibly suppressing a smile. “Never was one for lengthy goodbyes. I'd worry about him setting off on his own, but I suppose he can take care of himself well enough.”

 

“He's very... Antivan,” Bethany said hesitantly, still blushing a little from his playful pinch. “Still, he was kind of fun to have around, even if I never knew when to take him seriously.”

 

“Good riddance,” Nate grumbled.

 

“You traveled with that man for nearly a year during the Blight and managed not to strangle him?” Fenris queried, sending Brosca an odd look.

 

“You'd think with the difference in their personalities, they'd have set off some sort of explosion just by being near each other,” Alistair agreed. “I always kind of expected to wake up one morning and find his mangled corpse on the outskirts of the camp or something. Ah, good times.”

 

“It was touch and go sometimes,” Brosca admitted, finally grinning a little. “He grows on you. He's pretty loyal, for an assassin.” She shouldered her axe and waved on the rest of the Wardens, who had been using the short break to repack their bags and grab a quick snack. “Let's go. We've still got another couple days ahead of us.

 

Nate and Matwog immediately got into a heated argument about the best place to buy armor in Denerim, so Bethany hurried her pace until she caught up alongside Fenris. She looped her arm affectionately through his, and it only gave him a moment's pause. Odd, he mused briefly, how accustomed to kind touches he was becoming because of the two of Fereldens on either side of him.

 

“One day you'll take us to Weisshaupt, right, Alistair?” Bethany implored. “I've always wanted to see it.”

 

Fenris flicked Alistair a curious glance. “The Grey Warden headquarters?”

 

He nodded, shifting the weight of his shield to his other shoulder without breaking stride. “I've only been there twice. Usually I report to Vigil's Keep, especially with Brosca away so often. She's usually the one expected at Weisshaupt. I'm just fine staying a little closer to home. Besides, the Wardens over there are... different. A lot of them think a little too much of themselves, if you ask me. A lot of people look to them as some sort of military. Even expect them to make important decisions about things that have nothing to do with darkspawn. It's why I was a little surprised this business in Antiva with the Wardens bothered them in the first place. Kind of hypocritical if you ask me.” He shrugged abruptly, as if embarrassed to be caught airing his political opinion. “Brosca's more familiar with it. She'd be the one to talk to about Weisshaupt and the Wardens there.”

 

Brosca was just close enough to overhear. “Darkspawn usually aren't seen very often aboveground between Blights,” she said over her shoulder. “It's disappointing but unsurprising that the Wardens would eventually become political.”

 

“It's against our code,” Bethany argued, looking offended at the notion. “Wardens are meant to slay darkspawn. They can demand help from anyone, even kings, and everyone knows it. We should stay far away from politics.”

 

Brosca shook her head. “Not everyone feels that way. Especially in places like Weisshaupt where the Wardens have had such a strong presence for centuries.”

 

“Can we not talk about this?” Alistair interrupted with the hint of a whine to his tone. “Do you know how pathetically grateful I was to put politics behind me when I became a Warden?”

 

Brosca chuckled. “Apologies, _Highness_.”

 

“Low blow.”

 

Fenris frowned. This was a conversation he'd meant to have in private, but this seemed as good an opening as any. “Who were you before you became a Grey Warden?” he asked bluntly.

 

Alistair's eyes shied away hastily from his stare. “Er... no one important. I was a templar, you know that.”

 

“Honestly, Alistair,” Bethany said with quiet reproach. “It was a long time ago. It's not who you are anymore. Do you really want Fenris to find out from idle gossip at the Keep like I did?”

 

Alistair winced. “No.” He took a quick breath and forced himself to meet Fenris's expectant gaze. “I'm the bastard son of the late King Marric,” he said, so quickly it was practically one long tangled word.

 

Fenris felt his eyebrows arch, but otherwise kept his expression calm. “I see.”

 

Encouraged by the lack of excitement, Alistair continued a little quieter, “It was all a big scandal that was kept hushed-up. My mother was a servant at the castle, and very few people ever knew the truth until close to the end of the Blight. My uncle even tried to get me the crown before the last battle. Called a Landsmeet and everything. Luckily, Brosca was smart enough to see I'd fail miserably at being King, and helped Anora take the throne instead. Much better choice, believe me. She was always popular with the people, and she certainly knows what she's doing.”

 

“I never thought you'd make a bad king, Alistair,” Brosca corrected. “But your heart wasn't in it, and Anora seemed more than competent. Besides, putting a Grey Warden on the throne would have been seen as a political maneuver, which is something neither of us wanted.” She snorted quietly. “Certain Wardens at Weisshaupt gave me quite the earful when they heard of the 'golden opportunity' we'd passed up. Idiots.”

 

Alistair sent Fenris a worried look. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I guess I got so used to keeping it to myself. First because it was a huge secret, then because I didn't want the attention or expectations that came with the truth. Anora's been a successful queen for years now, so the truth of my birth won't cause quite the stir it might have before, but it's still something I try to keep quiet. I don't want the other Wardens treating me any differently. Even some of my own squad acted a little weird at first when they first found out.”

 

“I did,” Bethany admitted with a sheepish little grin. “Any Ferelden would have.”

 

“Thank you for telling me,” Fenris said somberly.

 

Alistair looked distressed. “You're upset I didn't tell you before. I'm just so used to keeping it to myself, and-- well, I didn't think I'd be able to stand it if you started treating me differently.”

 

Fenris looked away. “I'm not upset.”

 

“You are!”

 

“I'm not.” He met the man's eyes again, frowning. “I was a slave. You've never looked down on me for it. Why should I treat you like something you used to be? Besides, it's not like you ever had any power. What you were born as has nothing to do with who you are, does it?”

 

Alistair looked momentarily stunned. “N-no. But--”

 

“Bethany doesn't bear you any grudge for being a former templar, and I know for a fact templars have made her life hell in the past. Nor do I hold her being a mage against her, when the vast majority of my experience with magic has been unpleasant.”

 

“True...” A slow, hesitant smile crept across Alistair's face. His hand twitched in what looked like an aborted attempt to reach for Fenris. “Thank you.”

 

“Nothing to thank me for,” Fenris muttered, looking away again in an attempt to hide the heat he felt rising at his throat. “Quit giving me puppy eyes.”

 

“I do not do puppy eyes!”

 

“You kind of do,” Bethany giggled.

 

“He is a big mabari.”

 

“Isn't he?”

 

“Brosca,” Alistair whined, “tell them to stop!”

 

****xxxxxxxxxx** **

 

Fenris volunteered to take first watch that night. Despite the long walk, he felt restless, almost uneasy. They'd be reaching populated areas soon, and despite his new status as a Grey Warden, worry still gnawed at his mind. Would there still be a price on his head? Had Danarius even bothered to spread the word of his escape as far as Ferelden? He was a slave no longer, but that hadn't stopped Prato's magistrate. Even if news of Danarius's death eventually got the reward lifted, it would take longer for such news to reach Ferelden.

 

_Let them come for me_ , he thought savagely, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. He kept his back to the fire, staying just far enough from the camp to make sure he kept his night vision as his eyes swept the dark empty field they'd camped in. _I'll kill anyone stupid enough to try and bring me in. And Brosca and the others won't let it happen._ It was a comforting thought, and made something in him ache. Hawke had thrown him to the wolves, but Alistair, Bethany, and the other Wardens would fight for him. He was sure of their loyalty, more sure than he'd been of anyone for as long as he could remember. It frightened him a bit, but was also a deep comfort.

 

Footsteps scraping on dried mud alerted him to the approach of someone from the camp. “Hey,” came Alistair's soft call. “Anything interesting out there?”

 

Fenris waited until the man had stepped up alongside him so he wouldn't have to turn towards the fire. “Lots of nothing. Maybe a pair of deer earlier. Certainly not darkspawn. Shouldn't you be asleep?”

 

Alistair had discarded his armor, and leaned his shoulder comfortably against Fenris's, also gazing out across the grasslands. He covered a yawn half-heartedly. “Can't sleep. One of the men snores loud enough to wake the dead. I think the others in the tent are about to mutiny and either smother him with a pillow or carry his cot to the edge of the camp.”

 

“He can't snore any worse than you.”

 

“I do not snore!”

 

Fenris's mouth trembled on the verge of a smirk. “I assure you, you do.”

 

“Liar.” Alistair's lips brushed against his temple, making him shiver slightly. “Besides, keeping you company is more appealing than listening to a group of sweaty men fart and snore all night.”

 

A small laugh snuck from Fenris's throat before he could stop it.

 

“You should do that more often,” Alistair said approvingly. “Laugh, I mean.” He leaned in, still a bit hesitant as if expecting a rebuff, and laid a lingering kiss on Fenris's mouth.

 

“And you should do _that_ more often,” Fenris murmured, faintly surprised at his own boldness.

Alistair's face lit up in a quick, boyish grin. “If you insist,” he said happily, and leaned in for another kiss.


End file.
